


So a shark, a giant squid and a virtuoso walk into a bar...

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bass player gets laid, Brief description of heterosexual sex, Brief mentions of heterosexual sex, But feet definitely get licked here, But there is a lot of it in the text, Cock Slapping, Cock Torture, Complicated feelings about butt sex, Complicated feelings in general, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Double Anal Penetration, Drug Use, FUCK LIKE A EUROPEAN, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Feels, Ginger Fish has no idea what he's gotten himself into, I wasn't paid for the word count of "fucking", I've fulfilled my purpose on this Earth by writing this, It's not a foot fetish until Ginger Fish says so, John 5 is complicit, John 5 plays guitar, Lack of Communication, M/M, Multi, Otherwise very homo, Poor Ginger Fish, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Seriously cock gets hurt so much, Smoking, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Tim Skold is not a role model, Unbelievable, Vomiting, duh - Freeform, party hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 05:58:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18934837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: A brief history of two magical sea creatures with lots of fucking feels and a guy who likes to play guitar.It might be not as heavy as the tags would have you believe.





	So a shark, a giant squid and a virtuoso walk into a bar...

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 4 days and I have no idea what came over me.
> 
> All the research I put into this amounts to:  
> a) Reading a couple of wikipedia articles, one of them about nuclear weapons  
> b) Extracting from memory some pictures I saw 15 years ago and inferring intricate inner lives for the characters from that lol  
> c) Listening to John 5's solo albums
> 
> A month ago I barely remembered who all these people were.
> 
> Not only do I not know about actual timelines of these people participating in the band and what they were doing, I also don't know a first thing about making music and touring and life in general, so expect some fuck ups and feel free to read it as a story about some dudes who play in a band and just happen to have names you recognized. Or forgive me and read it for what it is.
> 
> There are several problematic words used in the text, and I don't condone the notions behind them, but they've been said and they've been written and now they are there. 
> 
> There are conversations that could have been conducted better and conversations that should have been had and situations that shouldn't have happened in the text. Certain individuals are recklessly driving an emotional battle taxi, certain individuals are being eaten off a plate and certain other individuals are doing a bit of both. These guys suffered for art and none of it should be transferred to the real world.
> 
> There are some sexual things going on in the text that one is not to try at home.
> 
> Let us all be safe and happy.
> 
>  
> 
> English is not my native language, so bring it on, point at my failures, I will only be delighted. :)
> 
> And obviously nobody here belongs to me, I've just written a story.

***

When Tim joins the band he expects something else.

Because he already knows everybody. He's dealt with Brian a lot, producing and writing and rewriting and arguing and everything, so him he knows best. Pogo is pretty easy to get to know, and Ginger seems to be a somewhat lighter, more socially acceptable and manageable version of him, so that's that. John isn't exactly chatty with him and has never been. Well, if it is not about music, that is. So Tim expects it to go the same way: a shit ton of working with Brian, participating in something extremely dumb with Pogo, him being really hard to unknow once you got to know him, casual conversations with Ginger — samples and beats and bass lines and gin and shoelaces and tonic and how does he feel in the morning and what side does he sleep on and what do they do for Christmas in Sweden and on and on, because this guy is chatty, and even more casual pizzas and burgers and twelve doughnuts out of a box, sitting on a bench, and peanuts he keeps in his pockets and on and on, because he is offering, you know. And John fondling a guitar, while talking about guitars, or no John at all, because this time the pizzas and burgers and even the twelve doughnuts have been offered to him, not to Tim.

And it goes exactly like that.

What Tim doesn't expect is some additions.

Though he should have known better, because he is the one who gets the pills.

 

Of course, he gets the pills. He always does.

Brian fucks off to somewhere and they agree he's going to get to the next city on his own, and John just rolls his eyes at them — or specifically at him, who knows — and turns his back, putting the earphones in. So the three of them — Pogo, Ginger and Tim — down the pills after Pogo raises the vial and solemnly announces:

"Here is to the shits and giggles!"

Well, he raises one of the vials, because there're several and Tim doesn't exactly know which pills are in what vial and even what pills are those. His Spanish is not very good, but Tim is not one to refuse drugs.

After a few hours of said shits and giggles, some dancing, some chanting, some object throwing and table banging, the three of them finally crash. John pulls his blanket over his head even before that and so does the driver, parking the bus near some deserted gas station after getting molested by Pogo for twentieth time.

When Tim wakes up it is because somebody closes the door in an unacceptably careless manner.

When Tim wakes up it is still dark, his bladder is full, his mouth is dry, Pogo is snoring, the bus driver is snoring, John though is being nice and silent. Ginger isn't there to be seen.

Tim gets up, grabs the cigarettes and a can of something and also gets out. He drinks greedily, checking out the surroundings. The abandoned gas station has some lights on, there are some bulky buildings in the distance, probably factories, Tim figures, some sort of a shed in fifteen meters behind the bus and a lot of dirt. Tim circles the bus, takes a leak, then lights up a smoke. He kicks a rock, and again, and again, follows it to the shed, then turns the corner to see what's behind it.

"JESUS FUCKING FUCK!"

He jumps and Ginger jumps too. It is Ginger, though he can barely make him out.

"Sorry, sorry!" Tim says, showing him his palms.

"What are you doing here?" Ginger asks, fidgeting a bit.

"Sightseeing. Admiring the scenery. You woke me up."

"Oh," Ginger says.

"But that's alright, I needed a leak anyway. What's up with you?"

Ginger shrugs.

"Couldn't sleep. Damn pills."

"Dizzy?" Tim asks, taking a deep drag and throwing the cigarette butt away. "Vomiting might help. Just stick your fingers down your throat, you know."

"Eh, right, thanks," Ginger says, fidgeting again.

Tim eyes him from head to toe and finally notices that his pants are open, his cock is hanging out. And Ginger notices him noticing.

"Oh," Tim says.

"Yeah," Ginger says. "Not exactly dizzy."

Tim laughs.

"Well, that is a better side-effect, if you ask me."

Ginger makes an ambiguous noise.

"Anyway, sorry for the interruption, you know. I'm gonna go ahead and fuck off."

Ginger nods. Tim turns around, pulls another cigarette out, lights it up.

"Or," he starts and turns around to face Ginger, who is on his way to the back side of the shed. "Do you want some company?"

Because he is exactly that kind of a person.

"What?" Ginger asks.

"Well," Tim says, taking several steps towards him. "I can stay and watch, for example. Or I can jerk you off. Whichever you prefer. I mean I can go away too. But. Since I am here."

"Are you fucking serious?"

Tim shrugs and blows the smoke out.

"Yeah. Why not? You're cute. You bring me peanuts. But as I said, I can fucking go. No pressure."

Ginger just looks at him for a moment. Tim still cannot make out his face, but he is damn sure it has that weird 'am I lost in the woods?' expression Ginger always wears in the pictures.

"Alright", Ginger says.

"Hm," Tim says, taking another drag, "Alright what?"

"You can stay."

"Cool," Tim says, closes the gap between them and puts his hand on Ginger's cock. Which is still erect. Which is great. "You don't mind that I'm smoking, right?"

"N-no?" Ginger offers uncertainly. Tim pushes him towards the wall a bit.

Things go well. Ginger feels big and hot under his fingers, and Tim stares right into his eyes without actually seeing them, lazily puffing out the smoke. Ginger gasps and pushes into his hand.

Then he starts talking.

"Fuck," he goes. And that is alright, but he continues. "Oh, God, you're so good. Fuck, Tim. What are you even doing? Fuck. I... God, you... Fucking awesome. Like... That's like the best..."

Tim throws the smoke in his mouth away, awkwardly pulls out another one, lights it up, takes a drag, while Ginger keeps babbling, and then pushes it between his lips.

"Here," he says with emphasis.

He half expects Ginger to ask him some questions. And not of the sort he asks when eating excessive amounts of doughnuts out of a box sitting together on a bench. More like 'what the fuck?' sort of questions.

But he doesn't. He takes a drag, takes the cigarette in his hand, curses, takes another drag, another one, and then comes all over Tim's hand, mouth agape and panting.

"Fuck," Ginger says after a few seconds.

"Uhum," Tim says and takes the cigarette from him, "Give it to me."

He inhales, puffs out the smoke and smiles, all teeth.

"Are you gonna stay for the part two?" he asks.

"What? Ah, you mean... Yeah, yeah. 'Course."

_Fucking gentleman._

"Just," Tim starts, but then forgoes the explanation entirely.

He is fucking _hard._

Tim puts his hand on Ginger's shoulder, squeezing a bit too hard, but he hopes that all will be forgiven, and starts jerking himself off with the other hand, squeezing a bit too hard too — well, not enough for his own taste, but definitely too hard for Ginger to see, twisting his cock with his fingers, which probably looks like some bizarre sort of animal cruelty to Ginger. Probably, because luckily he cannot quite make out his face.

"Wow," Ginger says, "What the fuck are—"

Tim stares at him poignantly and squeezes his shoulder even harder, because it is fucking dark and Ginger cannot make out his face either.

He shuts up though. So for some seconds Tim just happily pumps away, listening to Ginger's breath, cigarette hanging from his lips.

Then Ginger says something again. And this time it is not even cursing or surprise, it is something nice and sweet, some appreciation or fucking awe, and Tim won't have it. He briefly considers just putting his hand over Ginger's mouth and pressing hard, but that might be just going too far, especially in this situation which is awkward enough, and who knows, maybe there won't be any pizzas and burgers after that.

"Give me your fingers," he demands instead, spitting out the cigarette.

"What?" Ginger sounds more surprised than shocked. _Good._

"Put your fingers in my damn mouth, okay?"

And Ginger complies. _Magic._

Ginger puts his fingers in Tim's damn mouth and not in a sloppy, half-arsed manner, no. It is firm and sure, like, here is my total support for whatever the fuck you are doing. So Tim hums in gratitude and sucks on them in earnest, resisting the urge to bite. And the urge to replace Ginger's fingers with his own and bite them. And the urge to slap Ginger. And the urge to slap himself. And all the other urges, because he might be a bit unreasonable, but he doesn't want to spoil things beyond repair right away. He just sucks on Ginger's fingers and twists his own cock just hard enough and successfully comes some seconds later.

He wipes his hand over his pants and tries to catch his breath.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Awesome," Tim says, putting both his hands on Ginger's shoulders and slouching. "Can I hug you?"

"Sure," Ginger says and pulls him closer. And pats his back.

Tim hums.

They stand like that for a minute, and then Ginger asks: "Can I have a smoke?"

So Tim zips up his pants and zips up Ginger's pants and pulls out two cigarettes and a lighter, presents them to Ginger, and he lights them up.

They smoke, Ginger pressed against the wall of the shed, Tim in front of him, swaying on unsteady feet.

"I'm fucking sleepy," Ginger mumbles, slurring the words.

"Yeah, me too. Let's go back?"

They go back.

The bus sounds the same like when he left: of snoring.

"Good night", Ginger says and falls face forward on his bed.

"Night."

 

***

If Ginger is weirded out by their adventure near the shed he doesn't show it. Well, maybe he is even more nice to him, maybe he asks more questions and starts more friendly conversations, maybe he brings him not only peanuts, but also chocolate bars. Or maybe Tim just pays more attention to him.

Because Ginger felt big and hot under his fingers and he kind of wants to touch him again.

Because he couldn't make out his face by the shed and he kind of wants to know what he missed. It wasn't the first time he made someone come without seeing how they look at the moment — or at all — but this time he cares.

Because why the fuck not?

So when nine or ten days later Ginger pops in into his changing room, where Tim is raking through his shirts, they have this exchange:

"Peanuts or almonds?" Tim asks.

"Eh, neither, sorry," Ginger says. And then continues to explain that Brian wanted something from Tim, but it is like six hours till the show and the thing is not urgent, so it is not unreasonable to just go about his own shit for the time being, and yes, Ginger completely agrees with him on that, sorry again for no peanuts and no almonds.

"What about you? Busy?" Tim inquires, discarding the shirts.

"Not really," Ginger says, "Like, not at all, actually."

"Ah," Tim nods, smiles, walks past Ginger and locks the door. "So, what do you want to do?"

Ginger blinks at him.

"Do you mean..." he makes a vague gesture.

"Yeah. I jerk you off. You jerk me off. I watch you jerking off. You watch me jerking off. Or, I don't know, something else. You can make suggestions. I am open to any offers," Tim smirks despite himself, watching Ginger's face.

"Ah. Okay. Yeah, okay," he stutters.

"Oh, just come here," Tim says, deciding to show him some mercy.

Ginger comes closer and Tim pulls his shirt out of his pants, puts his hands under it, then takes a step back, takes off his own shirt and throws it on the chair. He touches Ginger again, running his fingers against his chest under the shirt, then palms him through his pants — if Ginger is not already fully hard, he is getting there by the minute. Tim unbuttons his pants and takes his cock out. Big and hot. He smiles, feeling a bit like a damn shark.

Ginger tries to reciprocate for a few minutes, touching him where he can reach, pulling at his pants, but then Tim looks straight at him, licks his palm with a broad sweep of the tongue and wraps it around Ginger's cock with determination, and Ginger abandons all coherent attempts to do something for Tim, resorting to whining instead.

He talks too, feeding him verbal candy, too sweet and too soft. Tim lets him, figuring he is allowed to have it the way he wants it, it is not like he is spoiling Tim's orgasm right now, because Tim's cock is still tucked in his pants and not being touched, so whatever.

Tim jerks him off, strokes his chest and sides, trying hard not to squeeze too much, and Ginger searches his face, his eyes moving rapidly and unsure, he shifts even closer to him and tilts his head.

"Fuck, Tim. Wanna kiss you," he says and makes the move.

Tim flinches and immediately curses himself for that internally, because Ginger speaks again.

"Ah, sorry. Okay. No problem. I didn't mean to..." he goes on, sounding so fucking polite and understanding and not put off in the slightest.

Tim grabs him by the arm, not quite releasing, but lightening his grip on the cock.

"No, wait," he hurries out. "It's alright, you can. Just you know, not all the time. Like twice is enough, okay?"

Ginger makes an uncertain noise.

"Come on", Tim has to fucking insist now. "It's alright, let's fucking kiss."

And he resumes the speed to add to his point.

Ginger gasps and nods, and then kisses him, licking at his lips and moaning into his mouth. He pulls away, bestows another string of praise on him, moans again, shivers, goes for his lips once more, pulls away, looks at him as if asking 'am I lost in the fucking woods?' and comes, spilling over Tim's fingers.

"Jesus fucking son of God," he offers a bit later.

Tim laughs, grabs a towel from the stand, wipes his hand and Ginger and tucks him in. Ginger catches his hand and looks him in the eyes.

"Yeah?" Tim drags, smiling.

Very soon Ginger is jerking him off and Tim's hands are travelling around his body, randomly touching, Tim being careful not to press too tight. He pushes into his hand, touches his face, mostly avoiding the lips, because he knows where that might lead, and the point about getting further burger invitations still stands. Ginger watches him, looking a bit amazed, lingering on his naked torso, his neck, his cock and his lips, without trying to kiss him again. _Magic_ , Tim thinks briefly, but then Ginger starts talking.

"Damn, Tim. You're so fucking pretty."

And again.

"That good? Do you like it?"

And again. Tim tries not to listen, but to no avail.

"Do you have to," he opens his mouth, panting. "fucking talk all the fucking time?"

Which comes out kind of wrong, but all Ginger does is says 'oh, sorry', while still jerking him off in the nicest possible way.

"No," Tim says. "I... Shit, sorry, okay? Just..." He puts his hand into Ginger's hair and looks at him. "It's alright. Just give it to me hard, okay?"

Ginger searches his face for some confirmation and apparently finds it, tightening his grip on Tim's cock.

"Like that?"

"Harder?" Tim says. Ginger looks horrified, but then does it harder anyway.

Which is still not enough, because Tim wants to bite on something.

He considers asking Ginger to shove his fingers into his mouth again, but that would be too tempting, and he doesn't think it would be a good idea to bite his own fingers, since they are playing in six hours. He still lifts his hand and rubs at his own mouth, twists his lower lip, while Ginger watches him as if he is a bomb ready to go off. He bites into the back side of his hand, tentatively at first, then harder, pulling at the skin, because he has a feeling that Ginger just might not run out of the room on him. He goes even further than that and pulls a bit at Ginger's hair. Ginger lets him. His mouth goes agape in the most perfect way, when Tim sinks his teeth into the back of his hand with as much force as he actually wants to apply, and Tim comes with a growl.

 

They play the show in six hours, rocking the hell out of it, and party afterwards, getting stupidly drunk.

The next day Tim discovers anew that he just hates hangovers and that he just might have been a fucking asshole for no reason whatsoever.

Hangover passes after he pours some liquids into his mouth, but the thought lingers, and he carries it in the back of his skull for a few days.

They play another show, rocking the hell out of it too, and party afterwards, getting stupidly drunk, because they never fucking learn.

 

***

Tim knocks on the door of Ginger's room the day after the second show. Tim brings him gifts: two bottles of cold beer, but Ginger is having some green tea instead, and explains why, and for a few minutes Tim forgets he actually came here to apologize.

"Hey," he says, taking a swig from the bottle, while Ginger is lighting up a cigarette. "About the other day..."

"Uh?"

"In my dressing room, I mean."

"Ah. Okay. Is there a problem?" Ginger looks worried, and Tim's heart just sinks to the bottom of the fucking ocean.

"No, of course not. Or, like... The problem would be me, you know?"

Ginger squints at him.

"I have a feeling I was a bit of an ass," Ginger is about to raise an objection, so Tim adds: "Like a giant ass, actually."

"Come on," Ginger says, trying to convince him otherwise. "Everything is alright."

"Okay, maybe. But I just have a feeling that you might be confused. All that 'don't kiss me and shut the fuck up' stuff I said. I mean. Aren't you confused?"

"A bit," Ginger says, and Tim thinks _fuck, I knew it,_ but then, of course, there is something else entirely. "Like, are you... I donno, a masochist?"

"What?" Tim blinks.

"I mean you fucking bit yourself. Man. And you know, the first time, the way you were touching yourself. Is it like... Are you into some BDSM or something?"

 _Wow,_ Tim thinks.

"I... Uh. Kind of. I am not a masochist though. If I had to choose a label, then I guess I would be a switch. If that tells you anything, I mean."

Ginger raises an eyebrow, so Tim figures it doesn't.

"I do both. I like it when it hurts and I like to hurt other people. Maybe a bit more of the latter, but I am not picky. Like, as long as _somebody_ is suffering..." he trails off with a grin.

Ginger chuckles.

"So you actually wanted to hurt me?"

"Not necessarily. I mean, I would, yeah. Would be nice. If you wanted that. But I don't think you do. And anyway. You are a bit too sweet to actually slap, you know?"

Ginger snorts.

"And well... I wasn't talking about that. I mean, about me dodging the kiss and everything..."

"It's okay."

"Fucking listen. I am not like disgusted or anything stupid, it's not a no homo thing, I mean, it is actually the opposite, like very homo, you know."

"I am bi," Ginger says, grinning.

"Yeah, I am pan. As in I'll fuck whomever," he explains after seeing more confusion. "But I don't mean it in that sense. What I am trying to say is that I am down with you kissing me and everything, it is just not my favorite thing. Like I wouldn't be actively avoiding it," _Which is exactly what you did, you motherfucker,_ he thinks to himself, "just... I'd prefer to put some limit on that."

Ginger shrugs.

"I get it. I said it was no problem."

"Yeah, but... And your dirty talk. It's a bit too sweet, a bit too much for me. I obviously don't think that you shouldn't, if it like helps you along or it is your thing, okay?"

"It's not a thing, I am just... being honest? I think you're hot."

 _Wow,_ Tim thinks.

"Damn. Okay, alright. So what I meant to say is that if you want to talk, it is okay. It is not a dumb thing or anything, I wasn't implying that. It's just for me it's a bit distracting. Well, to be honest, really distracting. I just keep thinking how much I wanna shove my fist into your mouth. And that's like... not a realistic scenario? I guess."

Ginger laughs.

"I get it. Apology accepted or whatever. I wasn't holding a grudge, by the way. It's alright. You're fucking cool, you know? I still cannot fucking believe we did it."

 _Wow,_ Tim thinks. Ginger just might be the chillest guy he has ever met in his entire fucking life. And he's met a lot of hippies, so that is saying something.

"Okay. Thanks. And yeah, we totally did it. How about we do it again?" Tim asks, because he is exactly that kind of a person.

For the next few minutes there is being awkward, mostly on Ginger's part, being excited and grabbing at everything like a child in a toy shop, mostly on Tim's part, and mutual kicking off the clothes.

Tim wraps his hand around Ginger and decides to make some radical changes to his conduct, if only once.

"You've got a great cock," he says. "Love it."

Ginger hums some noises at him, pulls him onto the bed and they fool around, rolling over each other. After a bit Tim pushes Ginger's shoulders and sits up.

"I am going to blow you," he says, because it is time to get serious.

"What?" Ginger, apparently, doesn't follow.

"I am going to take your cock in my mouth and suck it until you come." Tim explains and then quickly adds: "If you want me to, of course. Do you want me to?"

"Sure," Ginger breathes out.

Tim makes a move to get down to business, but Ginger speaks again, sounding surprised.

"Really?"

"Yeah? What's so fucking unbelievable?"

"I just..." Ginger says. "Didn't realize it was on the table?"

Tim looks at him as if he is some freak of nature, begging to be put to death right fucking now.

"Why the fuck not?" he inquires.

Ginger does something inexplicable with his eyes and makes vague gestures.

"Look, I am still in shock that we're doing this at all", he says.

"What?"

"I mean, you could be fucking anyone you want, and yet you're here."

"I am fucking anyone I want. That includes you. Who else would you have me fucking? Brian? Thanks, but no, thanks."

"John?"

Tim opens his mouth and doesn't object.

"Right?" Ginger says, shrugging.

"Okay, John's hot," Tim surrenders. "But. John doesn't like me. You like me. I hope."

Ginger nods.

:"That established," Tim continues. "Can I finally get some cock?"

Evidently, Ginger sees reason after that, lets himself be dragged to the edge of the bed, with Tim sinking on the floor between his legs. He puts one of his hands on Ginger's bony knee and finally gets some cock.

It is big and hot in his mouth, and Ginger is, of course, dumbfounded and muttering something. Tim decides to let it slide, otherwise what is he going to do? He isn't fucking _stopping_. So he starts touching himself too, sloppily blowing Ginger, filling the room with wet noises. Ginger keeps talking, his hands pressed firm into the mattress on both sides of his hips. Tim sits up on his heels, so now only the head of Ginger's cock is in his mouth, and looks at him. Ginger's eyes go wide, he gasps and then one of his hands flies up to his face, covering his mouth.

_Magic._

Of course, Ginger has to notify him that he is about to come before he actually does, removing the hand and giving a rather long speech to express such a simple concept. Tim just looks at him again, pushes further and hums around him, Ginger's hand going back to where it belongs.

Tim gets a mouthful and some muffled fucks and shits. He swallows both, sucks a bit more on Ginger's softening cock, until he starts squirming, then gets up abruptly, pushes Ginger away from the edge of the bed a bit, straddles his thighs.

"You with me?" he asks.

Ginger nods. Tim takes both his hands and puts them over his own shoulders, wraps his hand around his cock, feeling like he is ready to blow up, and starts moving it, looking at Ginger. Ginger slides his palms up and down his body in an abhorrently tender manner.

"You are fucking awesome. I mean, just... Wow," he says. "Can I... What are you—"

Tim puts his hand over Ginger's mouth, not exactly gentle.

Reckless.

Effective.

Fucking amazing, because then he gets to touch Ginger's lips, and Ginger lets him, opening his mouth. Tim doesn't hurt him on purpose, but he holds him firm, pushes two of his fingers in without much warning, touches his teeth, pulls at them a bit, then pulls out the fingers and presses them over Ginger's lips, smearing saliva around them.

Ginger lets him and Tim comes into his own fist, the corner of his lips quirking.

"I think I want that beer now", Ginger says, after Tim gets off him and wipes himself with his own shirt.

So they drink the beer and they smoke.

 

***

Days go by as usual.

They play.

Tim gets into several arguments with Brian, both of them throwing things on the floor and then giggling afterwards. He spends too much time with Pogo and then too much time trying to avoid Pogo: enough is enough. He wanders around the cities with Ginger, getting dragged into shops and touching various body parts of multiple statues. Sometimes Ginger wanders around the cities with John, and sometimes John joins them, so they all wander together. He starts a lewd guitar joke going around with Pogo, so for some time they don't, but a few days later the joke is forgotten and Tim is forgiven, and he finds himself watching two grown men gorging on giant ice-creams, wondering what the hell he is doing here, when he could have been throwing stuff on the floor with Brian.

They play.

 

They stop by a motel for the night. The driver goes into his room. Brian goes into his room. John takes not one, but two guitars, and goes into his room. Ginger checks out the room and comes straight out, telling Tim he can have it, and when Tim asks what's wrong Ginger says he doesn't like the vibe. Tim goes into the room, takes a shower and gets bored listening to the movie being interrupted by some endless experimental licks next door.

He goes back into the bus. Ginger is there and Pogo is there too, and they have cards, so Tim joins them, even though they don't actually play anything sensible and it is about as much fun as playing Scrabble with an elderly aunt during summer visit. Not that he had such an experience.

He is too lazy to go back to the motel and Pogo is too, so all three of them sleep in the bus, going to bed too early.

 

Tim wakes up maybe an hour or two later, not feeling his left arm. He sits up and rubs at it. Sleep is completely gone, so he gets up, looks out the window — John's light is still on — then takes a can of beer out of the fridge. He takes a few sips, walking aimlessly around the bus, and bumps into the table, cursing under his breath.

Pogo's snoring gets even louder for a moment.

“What the fuck?” Ginger slurs, lifting up his head just a bit. He is lying on his chest, blanket mostly on the floor, his wifebeater hitched up his spine, boxer shorts too loose on his hips.

Tim walks to him and sits on his bed beside him.

“Sorry,” he says. “Want some beer?”

“Yeah,” Ginger says, flipping over, propping himself on one elbow and drinking the beer Tim's put in his hand.

“Why are you up?” he asks, giving the can back.

Tim takes another swig and shrugs. Ginger sighs, lolling his head to the side.

“Wanna go out?” Tim suggests.

“What for?”

“So that you can swear and say my name a lot?”

Ginger takes the can away from him, finishes it.

“Okay,” he says. “Where are we going?”

Tim grabs his blanket.

“To the fields?”

“Can't we just go the motel?”

“You don't like the vibe, remember?” Tim says, taking another blanket from his own bed, then checking his pockets for cigarettes. “Okay, all settled. Come on.”

 

They walk down the road away from the motel, Tim carrying the blankets, Ginger following him, awkward in his slippers. They turn after thirty meters and start walking into the field.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Ginger says.

Tim pushes the crop away with his hand.

“Yeah, so? I promise I'll do unspeakable things to you.”

Ginger laughs.

”It's not that I am not sold. I am. But this is fucking ridiculous.”

 _So are the bad motel vibes,_ Tim thinks, but doesn't say anything.

Tim settles on a spot, long lights coming from the motel falling on the ground. He stomps on the grass, throws one blanket on top of another and gestures Ginger to sit. Ginger sits, Tim pulls out the cigarettes and lights one up. He smokes for a minute, towering over Ginger, then throws the butt away, careful to put the light out first, and sits next to him.

Ginger pulls him into a kiss. Tim pushes him away a few seconds later, Ginger sways back, landing on his hands, and stays like that, lights falling anywhere but on his face. Tim hooks a finger under the hem of his shirt and twists it around it several times. Ginger pulls it up with a sharp move of his hand. Tim bends a bit and licks at his nipple, then gets up and undresses quickly, not putting on a show, looking at Ginger's face, obscured by the darkness. He straddles Ginger thighs, pushes him to lie down on his back and licks his neck, pats his sides, snakes his hand into his boxers and finds his cock big and hot, just like before.

Ginger pulls him into another kiss, Tim sliding up his body, feeling his cock between his cheeks. He pulls away and moves his hips several times, grinding into it.

“Fuck,” Ginger says.

Tim does it again.

“Shit,” he says. “I'd fucking kill to ride you right now.”

Ginger starts saying something, something that sounds a lot like one of his wh-questions, so Tim cuts him short.

“Yeah,” he insists. “If we had lube I totally would. But. Since we don't.”

He licks his palm and puts it around Ginger's cock, pulls at it a bit with his fingers. Ginger finds his thigh with his hand, starts stroking him, his breathing getting louder. Tim briefly puts his hand around Ginger's throat, not pushing, rather going for caress, then removes it anyway, hooking it under Ginger's neck.

“Ah, fuck,” Ginger says, presumably looking up at him. “How are you so fucking pretty?”

“Won my face in a lottery,” Tim says.

Ginger laughs. Tim grips his cock tighter, speeding up, squeezing the back of his neck. Ginger's breath catches. His mouth falls open and he licks his lips. And does it again. And again.

“Okay, fuck, _okay,_ ” Tim says, bends over and puts his tongue into Ginger's mouth, licking his upper teeth.

Ginger comes, moaning into his mouth, his feet kicking the ground, bony knees meeting with the meat of Tim's thighs, his hands gripping Tim's sides tight. Tim resists the urge to just lie on top of him, instead pulling Ginger's boxers off him without any help from the owner, and wipes the come with them.

“Fuck, I am fucking thirsty,” Ginger says, trying to sit up.

“Sorry,” Tim says, not sure what he is apologizing for. “I've got smokes, if you want.”

Ginger snorts.

“Thanks,” he says, pulls himself up, pushes Tim to sit on his butt and puts his hand on Tim's cock.

Tim jerks his hips upwards to meet him.

“Do you mind... Do you mind if I suck you off?” Ginger asks.

_Asks._

Does Tim fucking _mind._

“Be my guest,” he says.

Ginger sits still for a couple of seconds and Tim expects him to say something else, something like 'don't pull at my hair' or 'tell me when you are about to come', but he doesn't.

He shifts, settles on a position and gives Tim a few licks, then takes him into his mouth. It's nice. He is not going hard at it, mostly working it with his tongue, his lips are soft and relaxed and wet. It's nice. Tim's not going to be an asshole and get all judgy when he is getting his cock sucked. Not that there is anything to get judgy about anyway.

Light falls onto his lower back, his wifebeater still hitched up.

Tim puts his hands into his hair, scratching at his scalp, pulling slightly, even guiding his head. He moves his hand to his face, cups his cheek, touches his chin, thumbs his lower lip, brushing against his own cock. He hears Ginger breathing out a somewhat wet sound. Ginger takes him out of his mouth, gives him a long lick and stops for a moment. _Oh no,_ Tim thinks, but then Ginger takes him back in, lips soft and warm around him. _Okay,_ Tim thinks, moves his hands through his hair again, then lifts them up, locking his fingers behind his own neck, pressing and squeezing, his abdomen muscles going tense.

 _Okay,_ Tim thinks and nudges Ginger a little.

“Ginj,” he says.

“Ah?” Ginger says, lifting his head. “What?”

“Can you move a bit? Wanna see your face.”

There is a pause that gives Tim more than enough time to think all sorts of things, but then Ginger pulls him down the blankets and makes sure the light falls on the right place, shifting him.

He takes his cock in his mouth, licking at the tip, then pulls away just a few centimeters, looking up at him.

“Like that?” he asks.

_Damn._

“Yeah,” Tim breathes out, scraping his own nape hard.

“Okay,” Ginger says and resumes licking him, his lips wet and soft.

Tim watches him for a little while, then touches his face again, touches his lower lip, rubbing at it. Ginger lets out a breath through the nose.

Tim bites into his own arm.

“Ginj.” he says. “You tired?”

Ginger looks at him.

“No,” he says. “Well, maybe a little. It's okay though. I can do it. I hope. Do you... Is there something else you want?”

_Damn._

“Maybe,” Tim says.

“Yeah?”

Tim looks at him, pushes the hair away from his face.

“Do I freak you out?” he asks.

Ginger looks away, then looks at him again.

“Like... Yeah. A bit. But it's okay too. It's hot. You're hot. Come on, lets make you come.”

“Alright,” Tim smiles. “Can you like... Can you hurt me? Because if you don't, I feel like I'll do something stupid.”

Ginger opens his mouth, probably wondering what kind of stupid Tim means, then nods.

“But like how? What do you want me to do?”

“Anything. I mean, I want you to suck me off.”

Ginger grins.

“And you can like scratch me, my thighs or something. Or pinch me. Or slap my cock, you know.”

“Slap your cock?” Ginger asks, and now that Tim can clearly see his face it is obvious that he is terrified by the notion.

“Or don't. It's not obligatory. But it's not that hard. Just... Whatever, you don't have to do it. It's alright.”

“You do fucking freak me out,” Ginger says.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, Tim expects hearing. But either Ginger knows exactly what is wrong with him, or he actually doesn't think that at all, because he just sighs, pushes him to lie down and takes him back into his mouth, firmly pulling his thighs apart, his fingers digging into the meat, past the point where it is just affectionate.

_Magic?_

Tim props himself up on his elbows, watching Ginger sucking him, his lips soft, wet and warm, his fingers first just squeezing and then twisting his skin. Tim feels his orgasm building up and clenches his fists. Ginger lets most of his cock out, mouthing at the tip, and then pinches the skin of his shaft, right above the balls, and pulls.

“F-fuck!”

Tim comes hard, accidentally biting his tongue, Ginger swallows around him and coughs several times without lifting his head.

They listen to each other's breathing for a moment, Ginger's head hanging low between his shoulders.

“Give me your damn smokes,” he says, sitting up.

Tim searches for his pants, cursing, falling awkwardly on his side, gets the cigarettes out and gives them to Ginger.

“Here,” he says.

“Fuck off,” Ginger says. “You crazy motherfucking son of a bitch.” Tim feels a chunk of ice stuck in his throat. “Why are you so fucking hot?”

_Oh. Okay._

“Sorry,” he says. “Give me one too, okay?“

Ginger lights up a cigarette for him. They smoke, Ginger hugging one of his knees, Tim resting his weight on both his hands, puffing the smoke out with his lips.

“I could have bet you were the spitting type,“ he says, because he never learns.

“I, uh. I usually spit. Well, if the other guy spits. You swallowed the last time, so I figured...“

“Dude,“ Tim says, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. “That's like not—“

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says. “Just fuck off.“

“Okay,“ Tim laughs, and Ginger laughs too.

They finish their cigarettes, get up, Tim dresses up. Ginger collects the blankets, draping them over his shoulder, inspects his boxers and throws them away.

They walk back, Ginger covered in blankets, ass bare, losing his slippers every step, Tim a bit behind him, with his fist against his mouth.

They get into the bus, Tim takes out a can of beer out of the fridge, while Ginger's putting on other boxers and fumbling with his blanket. Tim gives him the can, Ginger downs a half of it greedily, then lies down. Tim kisses him on the forehead.

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says and closes his eyes.

“You too,“ Tim answers and gets out of the bus.

When he walks into the motel, John's light finally goes off.

 

***

After a couple of shows Tim meets his good old Ann and Patrick, who tell him they heard he'd joined the band, and since they were in the area, travelling, they decided to come see him play. So Tim spends almost a full week with them, being really happy to do that and most definitely letting them see him _play._ He finds the time to introduce them to the band too, so after they part ways, Ann starting their van and Patrick giving him a hug, he comes back to the tour bus and hears Brian go:

“I am fucking confused. Who is screwing who here?“

He is suddenly the center of attention, and not the kind he is used to.

“I am both of them. If you must know.“

Brian nods approvingly, Pogo whistles. John doesn't falter performing his lick and Ginger just raises his eyebrows.

 

They talk it over before the next show.

Tim cannot for the love of God find his bright red lipstick and he refuses to settle for anything less than that, so he goes to Ginger's changing room.

“Can I borrow your lipstick?“ he asks, popping his head in.

“'Course“, Ginger says, getting up. “What color do you need?“

He finds him the bright red one he requested, Tim squeezes it in his fist a couple of times and shakes his head.

“I just wanted to ask“, he says. “Do you have like... questions for me?“

Ginger gives him a confused expression. Then, when Tim gestures with his hand between them, he seems to understand what he implied.

“Got it. Yeah, actually...“ He nods. _Fucking great,_ Tim thinks. “A _re_ we like... dating?“

“What?“ Tim exhales sharply, caught off guard, even though he started this conversation. “Uhm... No?“

“Cool“, Ginger says. He sounds relieved. “I mean, I wasn't sure what all of that... Like I fucked other people since we... you know, near the shed, but I didn't tell you, and now these friends of yours, so I thought maybe I did something wrong...“

“What?“ Tim is surprised and entirely not surprised at the same time. “What do you even fucking mean? What could you have done wrong?“

“How would I know?“ Ginger asks. “I am not in the habit of sleeping with my bandmates. I don't know the fucking rules.“

“Well, neither am I,“ Tim says, and the fucker raises an eyebrow. “I am fucking not,“ he insists. “Anyway. Nothing is wrong. Fuck. Look, I usually go either with open relationships or friends with benefits, if it is more casual. I can do either. I don't do exclusive, though. But we can go out together and eat fucking pasta and chat about our hopes and dreams, you know. Which we are doing anyway, so I don't even know. That works for you? You can fuck whomever you want, same applies to me, you can come and fuck me whenever you want.“ A thought pops into his mind. “And you like... You don't have to wait for me to offer it first, you know? And if you don't want to fuck me, then well, I guess I've been screwing up massively this last month, haven't I?“ He smiles a crooked smile.

“What? Of course I want to.“

“Well, isn't that a delight. So? Did I explain myself?“

“Yeah. This works for me. Cool. Thanks for clearing it up.“

“Don't mention it“, Tim says, leaving the room.

***

“You've got to help me“, Ginger whines, grabbing at his wrist. “Brian wouldn't even listen to me and John is—“

“Playing guitar, I know.“

“Yeah. Of course. So?“

“So everybody knows you don't promise things to Pogo.“

“Fuck off. Smartass. We've all done it.“

Tim looks at him the way that probably insults his intelligence. But.

“Please?“

 

That is apparently enough, because after the show Tim gets dragged by Pogo alongside Ginger into some fucked up club with folk music and people wearing ethnic costumes. He thinks he might be going soft, while they are playing the slots, because of course there are slots. Ginger makes puppy eyes at him constantly, so Tim downs shots of vodka one after another, determined to survive the night without brain damage. An hour later he vomits violently behind the club, Ginger standing nearby and asking worriedly if he is alright. Tim tells him to hold his hair. Ginger tells him to fuck off. They go back to the club and Tim downs shots of vodka one after another again, Ginger following suit this time.

Quite some time later they end up in Pogo's room and listen to more bullshit on a gramophone - on an actual _gramophone_ , its origins completely unknown to Tim.

Ginger passes out on Pogo's bed. Pogo pushes him like a log to make more room and Tim wants to tell him to be fucking careful with his favorite fucking drummer, but just cannot bring himself to actually use actual syntax. He falls down on his butt at the foot of the bed and sleeps with his face stuck right into Pogo's socks.

 

He wakes up hearing Ginger groan.

“Fuck.“

Tim lifts his head up, supresses the urge to vomit, repulsed by his own degrading position near Pogo's fucking feet - _Pogo's_ fucking _feet_ \- and drags himself up with as much will power as he can muster.

He finds two glasses, goes to the bathroom and fills them both up.

“Darln',“ Ginger says, when Tim lowers himself beside him, rocking unsteadily on his heels. “Swee'rt.“

Tim helps him drink, holding both his head and the glass.

“You owe me your fucking life,“ Tim says.

“Wha'evah,“ Ginger says, waving him away.

Tim scoops him off the bed. They somehow make it out of the room and down the corridor to Ginger's room, where there is a big delay, because Tim tries to get the key out of Ginger's pocket, and bloody bastard giggles and fights him, protesting, either suddenly ticklish or something even more stupid. They finally get in. Tim unloads Ginger on the bed and turns to find the way to his own room, but Ginger swiftly grabs at his pants and goes heavy like a dead weight, tugging at them.

“Babe,“ he says. “Babe, stay. Don't go.“

And he pulls hard, yanking Tim onto the bed.

“Fuck. Okay, alright. Calm the fuck down,“ Tim manages, while Ginger gropes him with all of his limbs — and there is definitely an excess of those.

The room starts spinning, and the giant squid beside him squirms and drags his wet lips over his neck.

“You smell so fucking nice,“ he says.

Tim tries to raise an objection and say that the main medium of information transfer in water is a soundwave. He fails spectacularly at that.

The squriming squid flips him over and lies on top of him, hot and heavy, one of his tentacles landing on his butt.

“You have the best ass ever, you know?“ the squid says. “You know what I want?“ he asks, as if Tim can actually understand the language of the sea. “I want to lick your hole. Alright?“

The squid starts moving, and Tim, horrified at the prospect of being molested by the deep ocean creature, elbows him a couple of times, kicking with his feet, and when it is not enough, he flips himself over, chokes the bastard a bit with both hands and throws himself bodily onto him.

“Shutupshutupshutup,“ he says.

The squid groans and Tim releases him.

They finally sleep, the squid back at groping him within one minute, but Tim is too far gone to do anything about it.

They finally sleep.

 

Tim wakes up hearing his phone ring.

“Brian?“ he asks. “Where am I? I am... I am at Ginger's. No, I'm fucking out. No,“ he says. “Fuck you too. Fuck you.“

Tim terminates the call, puts his phone down and turns his head to face Ginger.

“What did he want?“ Ginger asks.

“Don't know. Something. Stuff.“

“I am fucking thirsty.“

Tim is ready to tell him to go fuck himself, but then Ginger is getting up, swaying. He holds his head in his hands for a moment or two, then rakes through the cupboard, goes to the bathroom and returns with water.

They drink, water running down Tim's chest.

“Magic,“ he says.

Ginger goes through his bag and pulls out a bag of pistachios.

“Want some?“

“Fuck no,“ Tim says, pushing his hand away.

“Alright,“ Ginger says and sits heavily on the bed, throwing a handful of nuts into his mouth. It fucking hurts Tim's stomach even looking at that. “I have this weird feeling that something went terribly wrong.“

“There was a gramophone at Pogo's and I have no idea where that came from.“

“No, we got it... Whatever. I mean later. Did I say something stupid to you?“

Tim slowly goes through the hazy memories of the night. He snorts.

“I thought you were a giant squid.“

Ginger eyes him, then gets up again, takes the smokes from the nightstand and lights one up.

“You, on the other hand,“ Tim finally remembers, “said endearing things about my butthole.“

“Oh. Right,“ Ginger says. “ _That._ “

“Gimme the smoke,“ Tim says, grabbing at his arm.

Ginger lets him have it, lighting another one for himself instead.

“Can I fucking kiss you?“ Ginger asks, sitting on the bed beside him, a minute later.

“You can,“ Tim nods his assent.

Ginger pulls him in, holding his head with both hands, and it is sloppy and way too wet and long and everything he hates and it carries within every little feeling Ginger has towards him.

“You also can do that other thing,“ Tim says when they part. “I won't mind. Feel free to eat my ass out. For breakfast and dinner and for the five o'clock tea.“

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says, blushing.

Tim laughs. They fall onto the bed, trying to get the clothes off each other and losing some buttons in the process, grinding into each other, Ginger's cock big and hot against Tim's thigh, Tim's hand grabbing Ginger's throat and pushing slightly. Ginger wriggles out and slaps him across the face. It is really light, but Tim feels nuclear fucking explosions blossoming in his chest.

“Shit, I am sorry,“ Ginger says.

Tim grins.

“Do that again,“ he says.

Ginger looks at him, shocked and rattled.

“N-no,“ he says, shaking his head.

“But Santa, I was a good boy,“ Tim whines, laughing.

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says and kisses him one more time.

“Wanna do a sixty nine?“ Tim asks, once he pulls away.

“Uhm... That's not the type of multitasking I am good at,“ Ginger says, as if upset with himself.

Tim sucks Ginger's fingers into his mouth instead, puts his hand over Ginger's lips, pushing in unceremoniously, brushing his teeth, and they just do that in an awkward parody of what Tim actually had in mind. Not that it is not hot. Because it is. Because Ginger lets him ravage his mouth and moans through it, looking completely lost in the woods or at the bottom of the fucking ocean, and Tim is biting his fingers like a very careful shark, grinning like mad.

“Okay,“ he says, letting Ginger's fingers fall out of his mouth. “I am getting your cock right now or there is going to be a fucking revolt.“

“Fuck,“ Ginger says.

Tim puts his mouth on him, not going for skill, more like shoving his whole face there, licking at his balls, pubic hair tickling his nose. He opens his mouth as wide as he can and just drags it around there, as if mopping the fucking floor.

“Shit,“ Ginger says.

He says a lot more. Tim is fucking surprised his bullshit blowjob's actually getting to him, because it is clearly conducted more for his own benefit than for Ginger's, but he learns otherwise. He learns he is hot and beautiful and that Ginger wants him so much, that Ginger wants him all the time, that Ginger wants to do all sorts of nice things to him.

Tim finds Ginger's hands with his own and grips them tight, till it probably hurts. And it does nothing to make his bullshit blowjob more skillfull. The opposite is true. It is even more awkward than before, Tim losing his balance all the time, but never letting go of Ginger's hands, crushing his fingers with his own.

Ginger comes, swearing and saying his name a lot, and it is one big mess, fucking comebath.

Tim sits up, wipes his face with the back of his hand and yanks him up. Ginger seems to be floating blissfully in the upper atmosphere, offering peanuts to fucking clouds.

“Suck it,“ he says, shoving two fingers into Ginger's mouth.

He takes his hand in his own and puts both of them on his cock, starts jerking off, pushing into Ginger's palm. He removes the fingers, once he deems them sufficiently wet, and puts his hand behind his back.

“What—“ Ginger starts, his eyes suddenly becoming clear.

“Shut your dumb face,“ Tim says, trying to push his fingers in, past the muscles of his hole.

He grins and gasps loudly, when it finally happens.

“Tim, what—“ Ginger speaks again.

“Shut up,“ Tim says, crushing Ginger's hand in his own on his cock. “Slap me.“

“N-no,“ Ginger repeats, looking at him with at least ten different expressions like some fucked up modern rendition of Mona Lisa, and it crosses Tim's mind, that, maybe, he should tone it down a bit, pizzas and burgers and all, but he just cannot help himself at this point.

He sinks deeper onto his own fingers, pushing in and out sharply.

“Slap me, you bastard. You want dirty talk? I'll give you dirty talk. I want you to eat me out, want you to put your stupid face between my cheeks and lick me till I fucking come all over myself, but before that I want you to spank me with your fucking drummer hands or,“ Tim swallows hard, “or with your drumming sticks, just give it to me till I scream. And I want you to fuck my face. I want you to slap me, slap me good, and then fuck my face like you mean it, so that my lips hurt afterwards for days, so that I will have to get that black fucking lipstick off John and paint the biggest motherfucking mouth in history on my face just to conceal what you did to me.“

“Fuck,“ Ginger says.

Tim runs out of breath and just fucks himself on his fingers for a couple of seconds, twisting Ginger's hand on his cock.

“I want to fucking choke you, you bastard. I want to put my whole fist into your stupid mouth. Maybe that will shut you up. You soft, amenable, accommodating little shit.“

“Fuck,“ Ginger says.

“I want you to suck me off, to take me deep, I wanna fucking gag you, pull your soft, amenable, accommodating hair hard, I want it to hurt. I want to—“

“Fuck,“ Ginger says.

“I want to fucking hurt you so much. Oh, god, fuck...“

Tim's long abandoned any hope of deciphering the look on Ginger's face, but that look makes his blood run hot, he feels that in a few seconds he just might have the greatest disappointment of his entire life, but before that, before that he is going to come like a motherfucker and he'll make sure Ginger knows it is because of him.

“Fucking hell,“ Ginger says.

“Just slap me,“ Tim says.

Ginger raises his hand and Tim's heart flutters, he feels the nuke in his chest acquiring its target, the chain reaction starting.

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says, his hand landing hot and sweaty on the back of Tim's neck.

“Slap yourself,“ Ginger says, and it is so fucking ridiculously rude, that Tim loses it instantly, choking on his own laugh and spilling boiling hot over their joint hands, grinding down on his own fingers.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says and pulls him close, hugs him, while Tim shakes and shivers fuck knows because of what exactly. “Are we doing this again?“

 

Tim's phone starts ringing again, when they are smoking. Tim tells Brian that he is going to join him in half an hour, gets up, puts his pants and shirt on, grabs his boots and heads for the door.

He turns, when he reaches it.

“I didn't mean half of what I said,“ he says.

Ginger looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

“And another half?“ he asks.

“Another half...“ Tim drags. “Well, just give me time and we'll get there.“

 

The tour ends in two weeks.

Tim and Ginger have one more quickie in his dressing room, standing, jerking each other off, interrupted by knocking at the door, Tim shouting at whomever that was to fuck off.

And that, of course, was John, because nobody else knocks.

So Ginger buys him doughnuts, even though John has no clue he was there and fully supportive of Tim's language at the moment and is also guilty in this way.

Brian throws Pogo's gramophone out of the window, when they're driving to somewhere in the bus one evening. Tim cheers.

 

***

They get back home, and Tim spends first three days without opening his eyes for more than two minutes. Then, gradually, he settles into his usual schedule of going out, running, doing this and that for his various friends and acquaintances, listening to Brian reading him lyrics over the phone and shitting on them in a highly productive fashion, arranging beats and bass lines for anybody who asked nicely, refusing to go clubbing with Pogo and instead going alone.

He is in the middle of arranging stuff for nice people when he remembers some samples Ginger played to him a while ago, so he picks up the phone and calls.

“Hey. Tim?“ he hears.

“Yeah.“

“What's up?“

“Remember those samples you played to me?“

“Which ones?“

“The good ones. Ones I liked.“

“Ah, okay. Yeah, what about them?“

“What were they called again? I think I know some people who would benefit from buying them.“

So Ginger spells the name of the producing company and the name of the set to him.

“Thanks,“ Tim says. “How is it going, by the way?“

“Meh,“ Ginger says. “Bored out of my fucking mind. I might have caught John's workaholic virus or something.“

“What, you are playing, seriously?“

“Uhm, yeah. I've done one gig.“

“Wow.“

“It's no big deal. John's done like five already.“

“Like John's a good standart.“

“Fuck off. Anyway, it is fucking dull. I mean I talked to everybody for like twenty times already, and I went out with John and I've been to two of his gigs. And I went to fucking movies. And I even talked to Brian.“

“Have you tried clubbing with Pogo?“

“Fuck off.“

Tim chuckles.

“Do you like exercise or something? Working out definitely helps me.“

“I do, yeah. And I am bored while doing it.“

“Ha. Conundrum“, Tim says, pushing his chair away from the table and taking a bit of a ride. “Wanna come to my place? I am famous for being a good entertainer. I play in a metal band.“

Ginger snorts.

“Yeah, sure. What's the plan?“

“Don't know. The usual? We eat something and we drink something and we watch something dumb and you ask me questions nobody has ever asked me before and we listen to some crap music and laugh.“

“Sounds great,“ Ginger says.

“And then I can fuck your brains out,“ Tim adds.

There is a pause.

“Oh,“ Ginger says.

“What?“ Tim asks, first sitting up in his chair, then propping his elbows on his thighs.

“I thought... Doesn't matter. I'll come. It all sounds great.“

“What did you think?“ Tim inquires, suppressing a smile. “That I only want your cock during the tour and when I am home I am like no, darling, this isn't a good time, I have a headache and I need to go to church?“

Ginger chuckles and Tim laughs too.

“Well, not that. But... You know, I wasn't sure...“

“Dumbass,“ Tim says.

“Fuck off.“ Ginger says.

“So like, after six tomorrow is okay for you? I would have invited you today, but I am actually in a bit of a shit mood.“

“No problem. Yeah, it's fine.“

“Well, see you then. And thanks again for the samples.“

“Uhum,“ Ginger says and disconnects.

_Magic._

 

Ginger comes the next day, two bottles of booze in his hands.

“Here,“ he says.

“What's that?“ Tim asks, and that's some Japanese vodka.

“Saw it at the store and figured I wanna try.“

“Try?“ Tim whistles. “Two bottles? That is more like 'lets get absolutely wasted'.“

Ginger shrugs.

“Okay,“ Tim says. “If you insist. But then I am ordering sashimi. If I am going to vomit, I am vomiting seaweed.“

 

And they order sashimi and get absolutely wasted.

They order a shit ton of sashimi and feed it to each other. Ginger also shows him some tricks, so some of the sashimi end up on the fucking floor. Tim finds the smallest possible glasses and they drink the vodka lifting them with their teeth, getting wet and smelling of alcohol.

Ginger strikes up a conversation, which Tim never quite manages to follow, even though he is fully participating. Ginger's asking him questions Tim's never thought an actual human being might consider, so Tim inquires in turn what Ginger's brain is made from and Ginger is happy to confirm that it's pink goo indeed.

Ginger gets a call from John somewhere in the middle of all that, asking him if he wants to go to his gig and party afterwards, so Ginger puts him on speaker and Tim is not the obnoxious one this time, because he tries for polite conversation with a bandmate, while Ginger giggles and pushes him and they laugh. John laughs too, to Tim's surprise, so Ginger invites him over saying they have two nice bottles of Japanese vodka, and Tim tells him John doesn't drink, and John laughs, and Ginger laughs and says 'well clearly I do'. He promises John to come see him play and hangs up.

They proceed being stupid. Ginger goes through his CDs and puts on a movie neither of them is watching, then Tim plays some music they both find ridiculous and they dance, laughing and bumping into each other, just hugging and barely moving their feet at the end.

“I wanna fuck you,“ Ginger says.

“I wanna vomit,“ Tim says.

“I don't care,“ Ginger insists. “It's okay. Probably it's even hot. I wanna fuck you while you vomit.“

Tim considers for a moment if it is possible that he invited the wrong band member and currently is hugging fucking Pogo.

But no.

It's Ginger.

“You're fucking drunk,“ Tim says. “I am fucking drunk. We're fucking wasted on your fucking Japanese vodka.“

“So what? I still wanna fuck you.“

“Nope,“ Tim says. “You're gonna miss my fucking hole and fuck my armpit or something instead and I will never ever forgive you.“

Ginger actually blushes at that. 'I wanna fuck you while you vomit' Ginger.

“I didn't mean... I didn't mean fuck _like that_.“

“Okay,“ Tim says.

And they get into the bed. And Tim sucks Ginger off. And Ginger falls asleep right after he comes and apologizes. And Tim falls asleep too.

 

They wake up with both their mouths tasting of horse shit.

“There is no fucking green tea in my fucking house,“ Tim says.

“Whatever,“ Ginger says and kisses him, so Tim has to run to the sink and vomit some seaweed out.

Luckily Ginger doesn't get offended. Ginger is chill.

“Sorry for the vodka,“ he says, when they drink coffee in the kitchen, staring gloomily at each other.

“It was good vodka,“ Tim objects.

“Yeah, but I think it wasn't exactly what you had in mind, you know.“

“It's not like we can't try again. When is John's gig?“

“Tomorrow.“

“Alright. How about you come after tomorrow? I'll cook something and we will drink red fucking wine like boring fucking adults and then we can have sex both of us remember in the morning.“

Ginger goes red.

“Yeah, I can definitely do that,“ he says.

“You've got yourself a deal then.“

 

Ginger leaves and Tim asks him to send his love and admiration to John and his magical spaghetti fingers.

 

He comes back the day after tomorrow and not empty-handed.

“I got nuts and condoms,“ he says, once he is through the door. “Damn, I sound like a motherfucking squirrel who thinks he'll get lucky today.“

Tim laughs, and they go into the room.

“Dinner's almost ready,“ Tim says.

“Oh,“ Ginger says. “So like... When you said 'I'll cook' you meant like _cook_ cook?“

“What other type of cooking is there?“ Tim asks.

“Sandwich type?“

“Yeah, right.“

Ginger is still overly excited by the fact that Tim made steak, so Tim has to tell him to shut the fuck up and eat the damn thing. Ginger does, because it is fucking steak.

And they drink a couple of glasses of red wine like boring fucking adults, while Ginger tells him about John's gig.

 

They tumble into the bedroom two hours later, Ginger tries kissing him one time too many, so Tim promises he'll bite his fucking lips off and Ginger switches to sucking on his earlobe, which is prefectly fine, if you ask Tim.

They undress, Tim puts his hands on weird places and does things that are slightly wrong, but highly enjoyable, and Ginger, of course, lets him, and Tim sucks his cock a bit for that.

“So, where are those condoms you've been talking so much about?“ he asks, lifting his head.

“Pants,“ Ginger says.

Tim gets up, successfully fishes out the condoms, takes a bottle of lube out of his nightstand and presents it to Ginger, holding both items on his palm like on a plate and bowing a little.

Ginger giggles and then, when Tim pushes him to sit further away from the edge of the bed, sits beside him on his feet, uncups the lube and pours some on his fingers, he stops.

 _Don't get fucking lost in the woods on me again,_ Tim thinks.

“What?“ he asks, setting the lube aside.

Before Ginger manages to speak Tim puts his hand behind him, spreads his knees a bit wider and starts rubbing at his hole.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says. “Are you seriously gonna fuck me?“

“Yeah?“

“Wow.“

“What the actual fuck?“ Tim asks and hisses, getting his fingers inside. “Don't tell me you've never had your cock up anybody's ass. You're in a fucking band.“

“Of course I've had. But not up your ass,“ Ginger says, sounding scandalized, and Tim is not sure by what exactly.

There just might be some serious Tim-centered worship going on here.

“Well, my ass isn't in any way special, so,“ he argues. “I mean, it's pretty tight and hot and I want your dumb huge cock right up it...“

“Fuck,“ Ginger says, cutting him short. “Can I... Can I fucking look?“

_Oh._

_Oh._

_Now he wants to fucking look._

“Sure,“ Tim says, turns around and gets on his hands and knees.

“Holy shit,“ Ginger says behind him.

Tim just pushes his fingers in and out, putting his ass in the air.

He said he was going to entertain. He will deliver.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger starts after a minute or two. “Can I... Can I do that?“

Tim grabs the bottle and throws it in Ginger's general direction. Several seconds later he feels Ginger's slick fingers pressing on his asshole.

“Fuck me,“ he instantly offers, feeling exactly that generous.

Ginger pushes his fingers in, and for some time Tim keeps his there too, both of them stretching him simultaneosly, but then it gets too good to be that concentrated. Tim lets his hand drop and wraps it around his cock in a tight grip, thinking if he should just go ahead and slap himself or better not to freak Ginger out now, when he is about to get what he's been meaning to get for quite a while. He settles instead on just pulling at the skin of his shaft and twisting it. Ginger is telling him that he is fucking tight and fucking awesome and so hot and so pretty and everything else he already knows; he pushes back, fucking himself on Ginger's fingers, and Ginger's pep talk doesn't bother him so much after a while, because his fingers up his ass feel nice, and his other hand holding him firm feels nice, and Tim's own hand torturing his own cock... Well, that hurts and obviously doesn't feel fucking nice, it feels just the way it should. He has to collect a lot of inner strength to actually open his mouth.

“Stop, stop,“ he says. “Ginj, wait.“

“Ah?“ Ginger says. “Is everything okay?“

“Yeah, like, more than that. Like I am gonna come right fucking now if you don't stop. And I kind of wanted to fuck your brains out and keep mine. So...“

“I don't mind continuing like this.“

“I know. I do,“ Tim says, getting up and pushing Ginger's hand away. “Come on. On your back. Show me your soft belly.“

Ginger tells him to fuck off and lies on his back. Tim gives him the condoms and Ginger rolls one on. Tim covers his cock with lube, straddles him and looks him in the eye.

“Don't say a fucking word,“ he says and starts lowering himself on Ginger's cock.

Which is big and hot as always, but now touching him in a different place.

_Magic._

Ginger inhales loudly and opens his mouth and Tim hears the fricative forming on his lips. Tim goes down in one motion, hurting himself a bit, and Ginger puts his hand over his mouth.

_More fucking sorcery._

Tim smiles and starts moving, riding him, admiring his eyes, big, amazed, somehow lost and focused at the same time, and the hand over his mouth, squeezing tight, knuckles white, muffling whatever it is he wants to share with Tim.

Tim keeps smiling and he knows he won't last long, so he forgoes giving Ginger the damn show, grabs his free hand, puts it on his thigh and pushes. Ginger gets the hint and digs his fingers in. Tim lifts his right hand to his own mouth, licks at his wrist, where the skin is really thin and sensitive, where he would be checking his pulse, if he needed to do so, and bites hard. And pulls. Ginger whines underneath him, audible even through the hand, because Tim is coming and fucking clenching around him, clenching so hard and so tight Ginger's cock is getting pushed out just by the force of it. Tim makes an effort and grinds down.

Ginger growls. Ginger takes him by his arms, pulls him to his chest, hands landing on his back and on his nape, pushing him down, holding him in place. Ginger fucks into him and whines through clenched teeth, as if it was another way around, as if it was Tim who was fucking his stretched ass, hammering in, and Tim happily lets him, because if that is not perfect then what is.

Ginger comes in a few seconds, crushing him in his arms and going still, all muscles tense underneath him.

“I need a cigarette,“ Ginger says a bit later.

“Why haven't we done it sooner?“ Ginger says after that.

Tim chuckles.

“Give me a sec, okay? And to answer your question: no lube.“

“There were fucking shops, you know.“

“Okay,“ Tim says, disentangling himself from Ginger and getting up to fetch the smokes. “I got it. You want my butt. Don't worry. It is not going anywhere. You can have it again.“

They smoke. Tim brings the wine from the kitchen and they drink out of the bottle and smoke some more.

“Do you need me to fuck off?“ Ginger asks.

“Why?“

“I don't know. You don't like kissing. Maybe you also don't like snuggling.“

“Snuggling is cool,“ Tim says. “Let's snuggle. Just don't go all giant squid on me, alright?“

 

***

They start wandering and driving around the city a lot after that. Sometimes with John, sometimes without him. They even go to a couple of his gigs, so Tim has to give his love and admiration in person.

They have pizzas and burgers and too many doughnuts and also popcorn sitting in the back row at semi-full movie theatre and Tim even lets Ginger kiss him a few times.

He listens to Brian reading him lyrics over the phone and shits on it. He goes clubbing with Pogo and regrets it immensely.

Also, Ginger is seriously into fucking his ass.

Which is mostly good.

Because he gets properly hammered quite a few times.

But Ginger is way into that, so usually he comes pretty fast and then Tim has to figure out how to get himself there without freaking him out too much.

When they do it face to face the first time, with Tim lying on his back, his legs spread wide, it is fucking horrible. Ginger goes on and on saying all his sweet little things and Tim not only sees that he means it, everything written all over his sweaty face, but also doesn't have enough leverage to shut him up and that is not the type of a situation he enjoys.

Well, it is still some really cool pounding and Ginger fingers him after he comes, using his own junk as lube, and Tim looks at him, telling him to give it to him harder, and Ginger does. Tim jerks off with his fingers up his ass tugging at his cock in all the ways that make Ginger gasp his 'fucks' and 'shits' out. He doesn't know what to do with his other hand. He would have bitten it, of course, but there is still a fresh bite on it from the last time. And that is also really cool.

So not _all_ horrible.

When they do it doggy style the first time it is mostly awesome. Tim convinces Ginger to push his head into the pillow. Ginger fucks him hard and yanks his hands up and puts them behind his back and pushes on them with his own and that is seriously fucking hot, but, apparently, even more hot for Ginger, because he is finished just a minute or two after that and Tim wants more.

Tim wants more, so he fucks Ginger's face. Like, seriously. With gagging and coughing and both his palms pushed hard into Ginger's skull, keeping him where Tim wants him, his mouth warm and soft and so fucking wet around him. Ginger lets him do that. And lets him touch his fucked up lips afterwards, lets him look and opens his mouth for him and bares his teeth.

Tim knows it was a bit too much, because it would have been too much even for him, so he says 'sorry' and Ginger says 'no problem' and Tim says 'of course there is a problem, you were fucking gagging' and 'I would have totally vomited, if you did that to me' and Ginger asserts his superior gag reflex supression skills and Tim says that if he is going to brag they are doing that again. And then they drink green fucking tea to the First Face Fuck of Ginger Fish and Tim kisses his fucked up lips.

Ginger never slaps him, even though Tim never stops to prompt him to do that.

 

Then their European tour starts.

 

***

When their European tour starts Tim expects something else.

Because they've already done some touring. He knows he will be arguing with Brian and the two of them will get most work done and be angry at everybody else. He knows he has to avoid Pogo at all costs and even nudge him along to find another victim, showing no mercy for the members of his own band. Because it is either kill or be killed and everybody knows that. And everybody fails, and Tim does too. He knows he'll be very inclined to hear Ginger swear and say his name a lot, so he gets a giant bottle of lube the first day of the tour, because he means business. He knows there isn't much to expect from John, apart from playing guitars and talking about guitars.

Boy, is he wrong about that.

 

Tim hasn't even had time to uncap his giant bottle of lube when it is John's birthday already. Not that he doesn't touch Ginger for all those days in between, he does, but he does it with dry hands, rough and sharp, so that Ginger cries out several times and his eyes water, and that is too fucking much, because Ginger promises he will slap him one of these days and then proceeds to suck him off, not being very consistent.

Anyway, it is John's birthday. And Tim thinks: so the fuck what? Nobody is twelve around here. And John, it seems, thinks the same, though maybe in more polite terms. He says he doesn't need any parties and doesn't want to celebrate. But Pogo wants a party. And Ginger thinks birthdays are important. Apparently not everybody else's, since it's not like somebody's birthday never happened while they were on tour and it's not like anybody gave a shit before. But John's is. And even Brian makes a speech, saying 'come on' and 'don't be a pussy', so John falls under peer pressure.

They rent him a luxury room in a fancy hotel and Ginger and Pogo go out to buy him a cake. And since it is Ginger and Pogo, who go out to buy him a cake, they bring back a motherfucking monstrosity that Pogo calls 'The Transsexual Cake' fuck knows why. There're tits on the cake, yet Tim doesn't see anything obviously transsexual about it, not that he knows what would be actually transsexual in a fucking cake, and when he asks Ginger what they even mean by that he just shrugs. Anyway, they bring back a cake that is to be dreaded by all the things dead or alive and multiple cans of beer. Multiple cans of non-alcoholic beer too, for John, and Tim just knows it was Ginger's idea, though he cannot for the love of God understand whose idea was beer, period. Cake and fucking beer, right.

Brian dodges the party after fifteen minutes, regarding the cake with such disdain Tim only wishes he could master and saying 'there better be some cocaine in there'. He offers some verbal bullshit to John, congratulating him, kisses him on the fucking forehead like a fucking pope and leaves. John is visibly weirded out. Tim is visibly inclined to follow Brian out of the room: he already knows there isn't even a single trace of cocaine in that cake and if that is not a damn pity. But Ginger tells him not to be an ass and promises he'll let him suck his cock later, so well.

Tim doesn't touch the cake, going after beer instead, and smokes a lot, since John said they could. The room is kind of cool in its absurdity: there is a gigantic, massive bed and white fluffy rugs and a big console mirror, that is so rococo Tim cannot help but make filthy jokes about the eighteenth century and the French nobody even gets. Which is probably for the better, because it is not like they are very good.

John plays something vaguely Spanish on his guitar.

 

And Tim doesn't know how they get to that exact point in the conversation, nothing seemingly leads to it, but they do.

“Threesomes!“ Pogo says.

“What about'em?“ Ginger asks.

Pogo downs a beer and shoves a piece of cake into his mouth. Tim rolls his eyes.

“Like, who's had a threesome?“ he asks, his mouth full.

“Like, everybody?“ Ginger says.

John moves his fingers and creates a sound Tim was pretty sure couldn't be sustained by laws of physics in their current universe.

_Mistakes._

“Yeah,“ Tim says.

“You're fucking boring,“ Pogo nags. “Like, what kind of threesomes have you had?“

“Like, with two other people?“ Tim says, and both Ginger and John snort.

“Fuck you, you blond scum.“

John giggles.

“Alright, what do you mean?“ Tim asks, not fazed one bit.

“I banged two chicks. And I banged a chick with another dude.“

“Hm,“ Tim hums. “I see.“

“Ginger?“ Pogo asks.

“Ah? Yeah. Did that too.“

'And two guys' he adds without using his voice, gesturing what seems to be the concept of dick with his hands and making faces at Tim and John when Pogo isn't looking.

John giggles, Tim rolls his eyes, Pogo asks what the fuck is going on.

“Ginj tied a cherry stem into a knot with his tongue,“ Tim lies easily.

“Yeah?“ Pogo asks and looks expectantly at Ginger.

“Swallowed it,“ Ginger says, shrugging.

“Shithead,“ Pogo says. “Tim?“

“What?“ Tims asks.

“Threesomes?“ Pogo reminds him.

“Oh.“

_Oh._

_Okay._

_Well._

“Uhm. With two women and with another man too,“ because he is not going to talk about 'chicks'. “Obviously. And with two men. And with other... individuals,“ he trails of, looking at the cake.

“Like with trannies?“ Pogo asks.

“Yeah, with trans folks. And non-binary folks. And whatever. And I had a couple of orgies. As in you cannot add the suffix "some" to the number of participants without sounding like a moron.“

He suddenly is very aware that everybody is staring at him.

“Are you fucking serious?“ Ginger says.

“Wow, really?“ Pogo shouts at the same time, demanding his attention.

Tim shrugs.

“Yeah. I mean, it's not something... Like it is not a fucking achievement.“

John does something to his guitar Tim wouldn't be.

“Fuck, wow,“ Pogo says. “But like, how?“

“What do you mean how? With genitals,“ Tim says.

“Fucking die,“ Pogo says. “I mean, where? How? Why? Where do I get the ticket?“

“Clubs,“ Tim answers.

“I've been to fucking clubs. I've participated in zero transsexual orgies.“

“Tim's sexy,“ John says and everybody stares at him. “I mean... You know what I fucking mean. Of course he gets transsexual orgies.“

_Ha._

_He speaks._

_Surprises._

“Okay, okay, I fucking get it,“ Pogo says. “Fucking blond scum.“

“Nah,“ Tim says. “It's not that. I mean, you just have to go to different clubs. Like, the ones with the music you don't actually like. And preferably in Europe. Orgies are sort of a European thing. I mean...“ Tim lights up a cigarette and takes a drag. “You can go out right now, since we're actually in Europe, and I fucking guarantee you some action. Maybe even a transsexual one.“

As if cake is not enough.

 

What happens next is that Pogo really fucking leaves.

Ginger follows him walking out with his eyes and chuckles.

“He is not gonna get any. Come on.“

Tim laughs.

“Well...“

John plays a silly little tune and then Tim realizes there is a mistery.

“John,“ he says.

“Ah?“ John lifts his head to look at him.

“What about you?“

“What about me?“

“Threesomes,“ Tim clarifies, grinning.

“Oh, no. _No._ Not after Pogo's left.“

“Come on,“ Ginger says. “You can tell us.“

_Ginger. His reliable support team._

John looks at them both in disbelief for a few moments. Tim puts on his blond scum face. Ginger has weird eyes anyway.

“Okay,“ John says. “Okay, fuck you, okay. No. No fucking threesomes.“

Tim snorts.

“You gonna bullshit us - do it about something we might actually believe in.“

John eyes him, looking offended.

“I am not bullshitting anybody. I've never had a fucking threesome, okay?“

“That...“ Ginger clears his throat. “Is that like a moral stance?“

Tim snorts again.

“No?“ John says with a twang to his voice. “Just, you know... I talked about it with a couple of my girlfriends and they were down with it and all, with whatever combination, but it just never happened. So. No bullshitting.“

“I am gonna fucking drink to that,“ Ginger announces and takes a swig from his can. “A guitar player who's never had a threesome.“

Tim lights up another cigarette and comes to sit on the table of the console mirror.

Tim sits on the table and looks at John, who is back at touching his guitar inappropriately, then at Ginger.

“So, John,“ he says, looking at Ginger with a smile and feeling very much like a shark. “Wanna try?“

Ginger drops his beer can. John falters in his playing.

“What?“ John asks.

“Well, there're three of us here and nobody is particularly busy,“ Tim continues, unable to stop, as if going down an ice-covered slope. “Wanna have a threesome with me and Ginj?“

Ginger says 'what the fuck' silently, moving his lips, staring at Tim, and John sees him doing it too, so they look at each other awkwardly for a second.

Tim laughs.

John looks at him again and starts giggling, then laughs too.

“Okay,“ he says. “You almost fucking had me.“

Ginger, though, is not laughing.

_Smart._

“I am serious,“ Tim says.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says out loud.

John looks at Ginger. At Tim.

“You've got to be kidding me. You fuckers.“

“Nope,“ Tim says.

John turns to Ginger for help.

“He ain't kidding,“ Ginger says.

“What?“ John says, his grip on the guitar neck going tight. “What do you even mean, 'me and Ginj'?“

_Ah._

“We're fucking,“ Tim says.

John turns to Ginger for help again, because it seems he never learns too. Ginger shrugs.

“What?“ John says again.

“Since fucking when?“ John asks.

“Last tour,“ Tim says.

John looks at Ginger. Ginger nods.

“Whoa,“ John says. “Jesus.“ He drags his fingers across the strings in the most unmusical fashion possible. “Are you like _fucking_ fucking?“

Tim sizes him up like an arrogant blond scum elementary school teacher.

“Yeah,“ Ginger says. “Like _fucking_ fucking.“

“Not like just jerking each other off after you had too much?“ John inquires.

“I had his cock up my ass,“ Tim says with a charming smile. “Several times.“

Ginger goes fucking red. John looks at him.

“Yeah,“ Ginger says.

“Whoa,“ John says again.

“Which isn't the point, though,“ Tim says. “The point is, do you want to have a threesome with us?“

Ginger hides his face in his hands.

“I don't... I don't know how to answer that,“ John says.

“Well,“ Tim starts, feeling that familiar nuclear build up in his chest and rolling with it against everybody's better judgement. “We just need to establish if you like us. Ginger.“

Ginger peeks at him through the fingers.

“Ginj.“

“What?“ Ginger asks, lifting his head and looking at him.

“Go be sweet to John,“ Tim says, and it all sounds and looks wrong in all possible ways.

Ginger gets up and walks to John. John looks at him with what at first Tim thinks is horror, but then understands it is more of a surprise - and a pleasant one.

_Oh._

Ginger sits on the bed in front of John and gently eases his guitar out of his hands and puts it aside on the floor and looks at John and kisses him.

 _Voodoo,_ Tim thinks.

_Black fucking magic._

_Avada fucking kedavra_.

Ginger kisses John and John kisses him back and it is a bit longer than Tim expected and then a lot longer than that, and when Ginger pulls away John is flushed and frankly already dishevelled.

Tim cannot help but start laughing.

“Well,“ he says. “Everybody likes Ginger.“

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says.

Nobody is even drunk.

“So,“ Tim says. “John. Clearly you like Ginger. So what about me? I mean we all know I am sexy. But. Do you want me to come over there?“ Tim asks.

There is a pause. Tim looks John straight in the eyes, tilting his chin up a bit, and John shivers and fidgets and doesn't look away.

But.

“I don't know you that well,“ John says.

Tim is hard as a rock in his pants.

“I don't know you that well,“ John says, and it feels like a slap right across his face, and not the nice hot kind he was pushing Ginger to give him.

'I don't know you that well.' _What the fuck do you even mean by that._

 _Okay,_ he thinks.

_Okay._

He manages to compose himself.

“I see,“ he says. “That's alright.“

Ginger frowns, but Tim thinks he has to make it about John.

“I don't mind. I mean, I don't mind if you two... Go at it. We're not exclusive. It's alright. Make love, not war.“

John starts smiling weakly, and it is partly polite and partly something else.

“Tim,“ Ginger says.

“I can...“ Tim says. “I can fuck off.“ He gestures at the door.

“Tim,“ Ginger says.

“Shut up,“ Tim says.

John is embarrassed, but smiling, and Ginger is still frowning, but Tim figures he's going to fucking live.

“So,“ Tim says. “I am just gonna...“

And he starts walking towards the door.

But then.

Because he is exactly that kind of a person.

“Or,“ he says.

And both John and Ginger look at him as if he is their worst fucking nightmare.

“Or,“ he says, “I can just stand here.“ He gestures at the console mirror. “I can just watch.“

 

He is not sure how and why it all happens and how the universe is not immediately collapsing, but John nods and Ginger looks at John in something akin to awe and says 'okay' and 'fuck' and Tim just grins like a fucking shark.

There is an awkward pause after that.

Tim lights up a cigarette, looks at them poignantly.

“Well?“ he says.

Both of them laugh and the tension is gone.

 

They kiss a lot. _A lot._

It's like an endless cascade, that one starts and another continues and then they just repeat it all over again, Ginger kissing John and John kissing Ginger and so on.

Ginger's unbuttoned John's shirt pretty soon and pulls it off, Tim hearing John's breath loud and clear from where he is standing, taking deep drags and keeping his hands still on the edge of the table.

Ginger's talking within minutes, nobody is even completely naked yet, saying affectionate things, and John is blushing and smiling and saying something back, something encouraging, and then it is Ginger's turn again, and it is in a constant loop too, interrupted by the incessant kissing. Tim cannot quite hear the individual words, cannot make sense of the phrases, it is mostly the tone of the conversation he is catching, because they are whispering like fucking teenagers.

Tim has a lot to process. Ginger's all over John as if some sort of valve gave way and all the hopes and dreams and fucking feels are spilling out of him, and it is fascinating to watch, this trace of the years they spent together, everything that tied them, made them friends, made them go eat doughnuts out of a box, all of that unwinding and being presented to Tim. Tim wonders how that must feel for Ginger and he has no idea, so he just watches and tries to wrap his mind around it.

John, on the other hand, turns into a puddle of compliant goo, and that is another fucking enigma entirely, because he's seen it all with Ginger before, in lesser amounts, since there was no secret reservoir he kept his hopes and dreams and fucking feels for Tim in and even if there was one, well, Tim screwed that valve open within fucking weeks and never looked back, but he knows next to nothing about John.

He knows more than he ever wanted about his guitars, but he has no idea if John is shaking and moaning because of Ginger specifically or he does that in general, with anybody. Tim looks at his hands moving softly, as if he is tired, so unlike when he is playing, and really wonders what exactly does that to him and has no idea. So he just watches, gripping the edge of the table tight.

John puts his hand on Ginger's cock, and they finally break the sound barrier.

“Fuck, John,“ Ginger says.

And John kisses him and says something about how big and hot and awesome his cock is and Ginger whines and says something too and runs his palms over John's body so gently Tim wants to punch a fucking wall.

He realizes that he is hard and has been hard for quite a while now. He shifts on his feet and clenches his fists tight, letting the cigarette hang off his lower lip.

They move on the bed a bit and now John's blocking the view, his naked back facing Tim. Tim doesn't mind though, looking at his shoulderblades, and even if he did, he wouldn't have minded for long, because a few seconds later John says 'I wanna suck your cock' and sinks on his knees before Ginger in a smooth and filthy motion, as if he is made of some sort of liquid.

Tim catches a glimpse of Ginger looking down at him, his eyebrows raised high and mouth open, and then Ginger lifts his head and meets Tim's eyes, and if he wasn't lost in the fucking woods before, then he definitely is now.

“Fuck,“ he says. “Tim.“

Tim smirks at him, as if to confirm that yes, he was there the whole fucking time, because it seems that Ginger had a lot to process too and needs a reality check.

John lets out a small soft laugh, his back still turned to Tim, and slides his hands over Ginger's thighs. Then he looks over his shoulder at Tim, as if to see what kind of ghost Ginger saw there, and Tim catches a glimpse of his relaxed smile that has a teasing quality to it, if only for a fraction of a second — _so that is what Ginger was getting_ , Tim thinks — because then it drops, it slides off his face. John bites his lips and stares at him.

“Wow,“ he says. “Fuck.“

And Tim has to supress the urge to check if there is something wrong with him, if he has something on his face or if his pants are open — though why would that be surprising in this situation — so he fights it and just keeps stading there the same way he was before, and he has no fucking idea what is so impressive about him in that moment, is that because he is apparently sexy or a blond scum or just present in the fucking room, but he is not going to ask.

He takes a drag and puffs out the smoke, smiling at them.

“Fuck,“ John says again and turns away from him.

He slides his hands over Ginger's thighs one more time, unzips his pants, takes his cock out — Ginger shudders — and lowers his head to take him into his mouth. Tim can tell exactly when it happens, because Ginger's eyes just go all black, and Tim is struck by the fact that he can see that without having to suck him, not that sucking Ginger was a fucking chore, but. He feels a wave of heat coming up from his feet to overcome him, and he suddenly understands that it is all too much and he cannot take a single fucking second more of it, so he looks down.

He looks down and sees his own legs spread wide, boots firm on the floor, the muscles of his thighs tense and visible under his pants, and the outline of his own fucking erection and his hands gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white, the veins on his strained arms, and the fucking wave just rolls over him, burning him from inside out.

He turns over his shoulder to look in the mirror and catches a glimpse of his own haunted face before seeing Ginger staring at him in the mirror, eyes black, looking lost and miserable and afraid and ready to call for fucking help. Tim has but a fraction of a second to admire all that, because then he is ready to call for fucking help too. He turns around and rips off his shirt, buttons clattering on the floor, he pulls it off over his head, shoves a cigarette in his mouth, which feels like foreign fucking territory, opens his pants and wraps his hand around his cock, his fingers feeling like fucking pliers on the sensitive skin, all the while staring at Ginger staring at him, as if trying to say that yes, this is all fucked up and I have absolutely no control over this situation and if you want to get out of here alive you are on your fucking own.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says, dropping his head low.

The wave rolls over Tim again and then the feeling of being lost at the bottom of the fucking ocean is gradually starting to go away.

The feeling is starting to go away and Tim takes a deep breath. _Is that_ , he thinks, _how Ginger feels all the fucking time. How the fuck,_ he thinks, _does he even survive._

The feeling is going away and Tim feels the taste of tobacco on his tongue and the familiar nasty grip of his own hand on the cock, he hears Ginger's breath coming out loud and ragged between whispers, he sees John's beautiful naked spine, his arms hanging loose on both his sides, back sides of his hands touching the floor, fingers curling.

Tim sees Ginger's tense shoulders and his hand clenching the sheets and his other hand moving gently through John's hair. He hears John making soft wet little noises and moaning low and deep, when Ginger's hand cups his nape for a moment.

And then he hears that again.

Tim takes a deep drag and smiles, fucking plutonium imploding in his chest.

He definitely hears that again.

It is a risk, but he can bet that he isn't wrong, and if he is, then, well, he is exactly that kind of a person and never learns anyway.

“Ginj,“ he says. “Why don't you take a fucking hint already and fuck his goddamn mouth?“

Ginger freezes.

John stops too, but there is a different quality to his motionlessness.

If Tim had to guess, he would say that Ginger's pissed off and scared.

If Tim had to guess, he would say that John's fucking _waiting._

“What the fuck is—“ Ginger starts.

“Shut up,“ Tim says. “John.“

John slowly lifts his head, never turning to face him, but obviously listening. His curled fingers twitch.

“Tell him,“ Tim says. “Tell him you want him to fuck your mouth.“

“Fucking hell, what do—“ Ginger starts again.

“I want you to fuck my mouth,“ John says.

Ginger shudders, looks at John, then at Tim, then at John again.

“Shit,“ he says.

John's fingers twitch again. Ginger looks at Tim.

 _Do I have to fucking go over there and give you a helping fucking hand,_ Tim thinks, feeling the dense hot mass rising up in his chest, but then John shifts, takes Ginger's cock back into his mouth with a moan, takes Ginger's hand in his own and puts it over his head. Pressing.

Tim smiles.

_Magic._

 

Ginger doesn't look up for the next minute or so. Instead he stares at John intently, guiding his head with a firm grip on his nape, fingers spread wide in his hair.

“Oh, fuck,“ he says, John's hands on the floor clenching.

“Fuck, John,“ he says, Tim's fist on his cock clenching too.

Ginger comes, shaking, and a few moments after that John scoops himself off the floor not entirely ungracefully, straddles him and kisses him, moaning into his mouth, holding him by the arms.

They keep kissing for a while, John rocking unsteadily, Ginger's hand falling down between their bodies and touching him. Well, Tim cannot see that, but what else might he be doing there, he figures, looking at John's beautiful naked spine.

Then John pulls away and whispers something to Ginger, Tim catching only the breathy vowels and something that sounds like his name.

“What?“ He hears Ginger say, not puzzled, but rather disbelieving.

“Please?“ He hears John whisper.

_Okay._

_Okay,_ Tim thinks, realizing he keeps forgetting to actually move his hand.

“Ginj,“ he says. “Do it.“

Ginger immediately looks up at him, and Tim has no idea whatsoever what John was even asking of him, but seeing Ginger's face he is absolutely sure it was something good.

“Fuck you,“ Ginger says, which is not surprising.

“Fuck both of you,“ he says, which _is_ , but then he shifts, moving a bit further from the edge of the bed, pulling John off him, his hands guiding him by the shoulders, turning him around.

John lands between Ginger's knees on his butt, falling with his back on Ginger's chest, cock hard and swaying with the movement.

Tim's mouth goes fucking dry. He finds the cigarettes on the table without looking and quickly pulls one out, shoving it between his lips.

The moment John lifts his head and sees Tim he goes bright fucking red, as if in an old cartoon, colour rising from his neck to his cheeks.

Tim lights up the smoke.

“Hello,“ he says, smiling.

“Fuck both of you,“ Ginger says again and puts his hand on John's cock and starts jerking him off.

Tim exhales, quirking his lips, lifts his hand and puts it on the back of his neck, rubbing, his other hand going tighter on his cock, tugging.

John moans.

Tim jerks himself off straining his arm so much that not only his cock, but also his fucking hand hurts, and it breaks the terrible mass destruction device he has for heart that he cannot look at Ginger's and at John's faces at the same time, because this is definitely the most ugly and nasty and horrifyingly painful beating off session on his behalf Ginger's ever witnessed and he just fucking needs to know exactly how much Ginger wants to run out of the room right now, but he also understands that to play this game he has to look at John.

And they _are_ playing.

So he looks at John, baring his teeth. He hears Ginger saying 'fuck' like a damn mantra and he looks at John, smirking, who looks back at him, gasping and moaning with open mouth, his eyes travelling up and down from his hand on his cock to his face, and it is also in a loop or rather a noose, because John looks helpless, and John looks caught, watching his hand on his cock, licking his twitching lips, eyes wide and fucking excited, then lifting his head and glancing at Tim's face, expression changing to terrified, as if realizing that Tim knows exactly what he is thinking.

And Tim knows exactly what John is thinking.

And isn't it something new.

Isn't it fucking _magic._

“Fuck, Ginj,“ John says.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says, and Tim struggles to keep his cool and fails, because he can make an educated guess about what exactly Ginger is thinking and he is sure he won't be wrong this time either, so he lets go and lets go of his neck and opens his mouth and presses his hand against it and shoves two fingers in and bites, looking at Ginger's horrified face and coming in two beats of his most terrible weapon known to humanity.

Which results in mutually assured annihilation, since John is moaning deep and low and obviously coming too, though Tim can't actually see it, not only because he is looking at Ginger, but because he can't see Ginger either, everything disappearing in a fucking blast.

 

He slowly slides onto the floor some seconds later like a broken doll, limbs hitting it awkwardly, his head lolling back.

He watches Ginger get up and walk to the console mirror, stepping over his stretched legs and grabbing the cigarettes. He watches Ginger pick up a can of beer and down it without stopping, then lighting up a cigarette.

He lifts his hand and Ginger pulls him up, Tim swaying on his feet, his legs shaking, puts the cigarette in his mouth and lights another one for himself.

“You sick fucks,“ Ginger says.

John starts giggling on the bed, and they both turn to look at him.

“Fuck you,“ Ginger says to him.

“Hey. Sorry,“ John says, smiling. “Damn, I want some fucking cake.“

And Tim cannot believe his eyes two times in a row, because Ginger brings him fucking cake and John actually eats it.

Tim drinks a whole can of beer.

“John,“ he says, both John and Ginger sitting on the bed.

“Do you mind?“ he asks, gesturing at the free space next to them.

“Of course,“ John says, and Tim walks to the bed and collapses.

“Wasn't fucking sure,“ he says into the pillow. “What, with you not knowing me that well and everything.“

“Fuck you,“ John says, and they kiss, Ginger and John, and they sleep, all three of them, Ginger hugging John and John hugging Ginger and Tim hugging the damn pillow.

 

***

Tim watches them for the next ten days or so being silly and smiling at one another, and thinks he will develop fucking diabetes just from that, and he wants to tell Ginger to get a fucking room and do the nasty, because nobody minds, and then when he does, they have a conversation and Ginger says he is not sure and Tim asks what exactly is he not sure about and says that John looks at him like he is fucking candy and quite possibly wants to touch him more than he wants to touch his guitars, and Ginger says he is not sure he wants to fuck John without Tim being there too and Tim thinks _oh_ and Tim says 'oh' and Tim adds 'well ask him if he wants to do it again.'

Ginger does ask and John apparently does want, so Tim makes several calls and figures out a room for them in the next city, one that can actually host three grown men determined to spend the night on one bed.

They play the show and party afterwards, getting stupidly drunk.

Tim spends the better part of the next day suffering beyond belief and arguing with Brian, and then he is late for his own fucked up appointment, so when he gets there he listens to John playing something and Ginger giggling, standing outside the door, and when he gets in they are both on the bed, surrounded by bottles and bags of fucking peanuts, they are both on the bed with no pants on, Ginger sporting his wifebeater and John wearing Ginger's shirt hanging open around his shoulders, and their lips are chapped and well, nobody minds, and he is starving anyway, so he orders Chinese and shares it with Ginger, even though sharing is not exactly the right word, because the bastard just steals half of it, John giggling at them and playing country tunes on his fucking guitar, and then they put on a movie and don't pay any attention to it.

Tim figures that's that, but then he goes to the bathroom to take a leak and when he comes back John's on top of Ginger, naked, and they are kissing, Ginger's hand travelling down John's beautiful spine.

Tim clears his throat, and John turns to look at him, and Ginger sits up too, licking his lips.

“I'll be right here, okay?“ he says, taking a chair and sitting on it backwards, crossing his arms over the back.

John gives him a guilty little smile and Ginger opens his mouth to say something, but it is too late, because John is all over him in an instant, so anything Ginger has to say he says to John, in sweet breathy whispers.

Tim takes off his shirt and smokes, sitting on the chair, and doesn't make any move to touch himself, but then things become too fucking hot, Ginger swearing and saying John's name a lot, so Tim grips the back of the chair, crushing his fingers on it.

“Want your cock inside me,“ John says.

“Please,“ John says.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says, and Tim curses himself for not bringing the giant bottle of lube he bought on the very first day of the tour, but then Ginger rolls over and rakes through the bag on the floor and produces condoms and a giant bottle of lube Ginger later tells him John bought on their way to the hotel, John sitting up with his back to Tim, rocking rhythmically and gasping, his hand between his legs, the muscles of his arm tensing up.

Ginger gets back to him and they kiss again. Ginger gets back to him and coats his fingers with lube, John lies on his back and throws his legs open, Ginger lies next to him on his side, propped on one elbow, and puts his fingers over John's hole.

Tim thinks his eyes are going to burst if he doesn't do anything right fucking now, so he gets up and pulls at his belt and knocks over the chair he was sitting on, and John looks at him, and Ginger looks at him, both alarmed and wide-eyed like a pair of fucking Bambies.

“Oh, don't mind me,“ he says and opens his pants, pulling his stiff and neglected cock out.

And they don't mind him, they kiss again and then Ginger moves to lie between John's spread legs, his wifebeater hitched up in the most familiar way, and Tim thinks he can definitely beat off to _that_ , but then John whispers something, pressing his lips into Ginger's ear.

“Fuck, John,“ Ginger says, and Tim hears the clock starting ticking inside his chest in anticipation.

They sit up and turn around, both facing Tim and neither exactly looking at him, and John gets on his hands and knees and Ginger puts a gentle hand on his hip and guides his cock in.

Apparently, John is fucking tight and beautiful and everything else Tim himself has heard from where John is now. Tim twists his cock just so and lights up a cigarette.

John is moaning and Ginger bends to kiss his beautiful spine, whispering into his ear, and John is moaning even deeper.

Tim takes a drag. Tim takes several steps forward.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says, suddenly aware of his existence.

Tim sits in front of them balancing on his heels, letting go of his cock and tilting his head low to the side to look at John's face, smirking like a very smart and particularly inventive shark.

The moment John sees him looking he goes red and shuts his eyes tight.

“Ginger,“ he says. “Pull his head up.“

John keeps his eyes closed, as if his life fucking depends on it.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says and puts his hand into John's hair and starts pulling gently. “What the fuck is happening here?“

“Here,“ Tim says and puts his hand with a cigarette in the air. “Shut your dumb face.“

Ginger takes the cigarette and then John's face is finally presented to Tim in its entirety.

“Look at me,“ Tim says.

John whines. Ginger swears.

“John,“ Tim says, rocking on his heels.

John slowly opens his eyes.

“Hello there,“ Tim says and smiles, baring his teeth.

“Check this out,“ Tim says and puts two of his fingers into his own mouth, sucking on them.

John whines. Ginger swears.

“So,“ Tim says, pulling the fingers out and cupping his own chin. “Last time you said you didn't know me that well. Well, I figured I'd just have to introduce myself properly.“

He lifts his upper lip, hooking his finger under it, twisting and pulling.

“I am Tim,“ he says, looking at John. “I don't like kissing and I fucking hate it when Ginger says stuff pretty boys like you find flattering, but I like his cock and I like how he swears and says my name a lot when we fuck, so sometimes I still allow him to kiss me and sometimes I put a hand over his stupid mouth and he lets me.“

“Fuck,“ Ginger says.

John sucks in a sharp breath, watching him expectantly.

“I kind of like you too,“ Tim continues after sucking his fingers some more. “I'd fuck your pretty mouth. And I'd slap your pretty face. And I'd put my cock up your pretty ass and you'd fucking love it, wouldn't you? Just like you're loving it now.“

“Fuck,“ Ginger says. “Can somebody tell me what the fuck is happening here?“

“Are you... uncomfortable?“ Tim asks without looking at him and puts his hand on his cock.

“Fuck. Yeah? A bit,“ Ginger says.

“Well, it's alright,“ Tim says, smiling. “It is alright, isn't it, John?“

John moans.

“Tell him.“

“It's alright,“ John breathes out. “Everything's alright. Fuck me.“

Tim chuckles, and John goes red again.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says.

“Anyway,“ Tim starts again. “I'd do all of that and more. But since I am not getting any of that I'm just gonna entertain myself here, okay? I'll put my fucking hand down my throat and suck it and bite it and it will hurt so much. But it won't hurt enough. “

“So I'm just gonna entertain myself a little bit harder. I'm gonna put my fucking hand down my throat and I'm gonna bite it and I'm gonna slap my fucking cock and you won't be able to do anything about it,“ Tim says and shoves as many fingers as he can into his mouth and squeezes his cock, twisting it hard, and looks up at Ginger.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says and puts his hand over his mouth and pushes into John and John moans.

Tim looks at Ginger, sucking on his fingers and hurting himself so much he actually feels his eyes go wet.

His legs hurt too and not in the way he intended, just going numb from sitting on his heels, but Ginger stares at him like he is about to faint, so Tim figures he'll just have to live with that.

He pulls his fingers out and opens his mouth wide with his thumb, pushing on the lower lip.

He slaps his cock.

“Oh my fucking God,“ John says and not quite finishes even that, the last syllable coming out crippled, because he is moaning and coming, clenching around Ginger's cock and shaking.

Not that Tim is looking at him, he is looking at Ginger, but he doesn't need to, exactly because he is looking at Ginger.

“Fuck, John," Ginger says, or maybe that's a 'fuck, Tim' or even 'fuck, giant squid', because it is muffled by his hand over his mouth, but Tim is reasonably sure there is a 'fuck' in there and why wouldn't there be one.

Tim is looking at Ginger, and Ginger is coming into John's clenching asshole, and Tim slaps his cock again and starts beating off furiously and bites on his fucking fingers just like he promised and comes too.

Because he fucking delivers.

 

John eats peanuts picking them off Ginger's palm with his mouth after Ginger calls them sick fucks and Tim brings them all enough water to drown a fucking elephant. He sits on the floor, the knocked off chair digging painfully into his back, and smokes looking at John and looking at Ginger with hooded eyes.

His cock hurts so much when he goes to the bathroom that he cries out and Ginger comes in and looks at him like some sort of fucked up modern rendition of Mona Lisa, only really terrified and not enigmatic at all, and guides him out and puts him in bed and covers his aching cock with a wet towel and lies next to him, hugging him. John lies next to him too, on the other side, and hugs him too, like, actually fucking touching him with his genuine fucking hands.

 _If there is magic involved,_ Tim thinks, _this time I might have been the fucking prop._

 

***

They play the shows, travelling through Europe, and evidently Ginger is not as unsure as before, because he and John start fucking without Tim being there, and Tim wants to build a pagan temple and thank all the gods that would listen for that and maybe also stick a prayer there - or even an animal sacrifice - that nobody notices, especially Pogo, because they act like teenage idiots in love and Tim is actually afraid to imagine all the explaining.

Then he understands they were acting like that all along, it's just now he is versed in reading the signs for what they are and everybody else still lives in dark fucking ages and thinks that peanuts are just peanuts.

_Ha._

Then he gets his hands on cocaine.

 

The party after the show, getting stupidly drunk, John is surrounded by more boobs than he probably can count and Pogo is trying to divert at least one pair of them onto his miserable ass. Ginger is for some reason engaged in what seems to be a debate with Brian and a tall brunette with a nose ring.

Tim gets chatted up by two guys and a girl who all don't think much of Manson's music but appreciate Tim's earlier work, so Tim thinks maybe foursome, but no, it's cocaine.

It is cocaine and them going away, wishing him the best of luck.

Tim considers just snorting it all alone, but there is a bit too much, then he suffers a brief episode of kindness and thinks that maybe he should invite Pogo, who still hasn't got any boobs off John, but there just might be too little to invite fucking Pogo.

There is definitely not enough to offer it to Brian, even more so now when he is with a woman who clearly has experience putting things in her nostrils.

So he carefully detaches Ginger from Brian and his companion and shows Ginger what the little elves have brought him for his exceptionally good behaviour and they go to the roof and snort cocaine from the back side of Ginger's hand, laughing like maniacs and dancing to the beat of the music neither of them likes coming from the club.

They don't go back after it wears off, because there is enough for another go, so they have another go, Tim licking the last of it from the back of Ginger's hand. Then Tim finds lipstick in his pocket and smears it on and Ginger says he is hot, so they dance a bit more, pressed into each other, to the beat of profound love Ginger by his own admition feels for the whole visible universe, and Tim asks him 'what about the pink unicorn', but Ginger doesn't follow, so Tim pushes him against the wall, takes his cock out and drops on his knees.

The profound fucking love spills out of him even readier than usually, so Tim tells him he is going to bust his fucking balls if he doesn't shut up, and when it doesn't work, because the love is just too overwhelming to be contained, Tim actually has to gag himself a little on his cock, even though it is not exactly his area of expertise and not exactly his cup of tea either, but Ginger comes hot and shaking into his mouth and also all that sloppy friction fuckes up his make up even more, that in turn inspiring Ginger to do unspeakable things to his lipstick covered lips and his lipstick covered face without much pushing on Tim's part, all the while jerking him off with a delightfully dry and calloused hand.

 _There might be hope for him yet,_ Tim thinks, not letting Ginger kiss him and not wiping away the lipstick either, so when they go back to the club Tim gets a compliment from Brian on his cool style and a question from Pogo, which he answers with 'I fell off the stairs' and nothing verbal from John. From John he gets a stare that would have made him hard in any other situation, even though John is still surrounded by boobs, and one can only wonder why he would bother with Tim's lipstick covered recently fucked face.

Few days later Ginger brings him a note that says 'you are hot' and 'John' with an 'xo' underneath it and Ginger tells him John's developed an interest in watching Tim sucking Ginger's cock and Tim says 'oh, now he wants to fucking watch' and Ginger shrugs and says 'yeah, maybe we shouldn't' and of course they absolutely fucking should after that, so Tim makes several calls and arranges for a room with all the desired properties in the next city.

This time they get there together, so Tim manages to convince Ginger not to let John bring his guitar, saying that it doesn't go well with the sound of the skin pipe he is going to be playing, and Ginger chokes on his laughter and coughs, bending over, for two minutes straight, and Tim is sure he's going to fucking vomit all over himself, but he doesn't, and maybe it is really only him who is that easily triggered, Tim thinks.

This time they get there together, so it is a bit awkward in the beginning and they decide to just chill out on the bed first, Tim sitting at the edge of it and smoking, Ginger half lying on the pillow like a fucking Roman, telling John something Tim has already heard, and John between them on his stomach, his bare feet in the air and fucking swinging. Tim thinks of all forms of torture he just must impose on him for that, but then decides to forgive him, noticing John's butt jumping a bit with each swing.

Tim stands up and strips in the middle of their conversation, drags Ginger up and doesn't let him undress, figuring that this arrangement would probably add to John's fucking entertainment, as well as making Ginger stand in the middle of the room, not being able to put his hands anywhere but on Tim's head, and he is not wrong about it.

 _Kinky little fucker,_ Tim thinks, kneeling in front of Ginger, who is lost in the fucking woods and it seems won't be emerging out of there for a very long time, taking him into his mouth and locking his hands behind his back for John's benefit, because he would much rather slap his cock, but.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says, looking down at him, Tim looking up and smiling around his cock.

John whines from the bed.

At some point Ginger touches the corner of his mouth, stretched around his cock, and then Tim alternates between sucking his cock and sucking his fingers, which turns out to be very immersive for both of them, Ginger saying his name and pulling at his lips and staring at him and at his own four fingers shoved down Tim's throat, as if they live the life of their own and an interesting one at that, Tim mostly just leaking on the floor and twisting one of his hands in another behind his back to avoid being _nice._

Sparing a thought for John whining from the bed is infinitely hard, but Tim knows that better things, than just Ginger's quick guilty glances and Tim's quick bloodthirsty glances, are possible, so he manages to stop and manages to get up and manages to push Ginger hard enough that he walks.

“Go be sweet to John,“ Tim says, and Ginger sits on the edge of the bed beside John and wraps his hand around John's cock and John puts his hand over Ginger's and they kiss, moaning into each other's mouths, making Tim sick, but then again many things do.

Tim falls onto his knees in front of Ginger and starts sucking him again, and it is not long before he hears them saying 'fuck' into each other's mouths and Ginger comes hot and shaking into his.

Tim starts wondering how come he never sees John orgasm, standing on his knees, while they catch their breath, showing his incredible resolve or his incredible stupidity and still not doing horrible things to his cock. Then he is hauled up by Ginger, who says 'come here' and pushes him to lie on his back and puts his mouth on his insuffiently tortured cock. John lands a second later beside him and looks him in the eyes and then grabs his face with his hand and holds it firmly.

“Seriously?“ Tim asks, smirking. “I can fucking chew you and swallow you whole and there won't be anything left to spit out. I am a fucking shark.“

“Okay,“ John says and smiles at him, not removing his hand.

“Alright,“ Tim says. “Push Ginger's head down, then.“

John pushes Ginger's head down on his cock and Ginger gags a little and slaps Tim without looking, his hand landing heavy and hot on his arm and shoulder, his lips soft and wet around his cock, so Tim is coming, staring at John with his fingers squeezing his jaw.

They haul Ginger up after Tim comes, and he just lies on top of them for a while, until Tim asks who is getting the smokes.

Ginger brings cigarettes and water and they smoke, Tim lying flat on his back, Ginger stading at the foot of the bed. Then Ginger spoons John from behind, his face buried in his hair, and Tim turns on his side, facing John, showing him his teeth once more, and that's how they sleep.

 

***

Between this time and the last time they fuck on tour John finally lets Tim touch him.

Other things happen between this time and the last time they fuck on tour too, but those are things Tim's expected from the beginning, not that his premonition skills are even worth mentioning, but then again if augurs are being mentioned, and now they are, then why not also mention Tim fucking Skold, him still being better than ancient bird watchers.

John finally lets Tim touch him and weirdly enough there is no thunder and no lightning and no other atmospheric phenomena to mark the day when it happens. Actually, it is rather plain and not sexual at all, though Tim thinks it might become sexual later and it does, so the point about serial avian harassers stands. It is rather plain, because they are just sitting on a bench eating doughnuts Ginger got for both of them, while Ginger is asking the lady in the ticket booth some questions about the museum all three of them go in later who knows why. They are eating doughnuts sitting on a bench, and Tim tells John he can have the last one, and he does, sugar powder staining his face. Tim lifts his hand to brush it off and John nods and lets him. Then he kisses Tim on the mouth and later, when they are standing in the bathroom of the museum, washing their hands, he kisses him again.

Later that day Tim tells Ginger that he's been granted manual access, and Ginger kisses him on the mouth too, making it one kiss too many.

That is not Tim's favorite day.

 

The day they fuck the last time while on tour though is a pretty cool day.

They buy cigarettes and chocolate chip cookies, John explaining that he always wants something sweet and a lot of it after he comes, and that is how Tim likes to open a business deal: knowing that somebody will be orgasming at the end of it.

When they get to the hotel it is a bit crowded at first, too many limbs getting in the way of undressing, so Tim puts his hands away and steps aside for a bit, letting the kissers kiss and tell each other how hot and amazing they are, but then when things progress a bit and John is on his back with his legs spread wide, he comes to sit on the bed next to Ginger looking at John's hole and thinking he'd fucking kiss _that_ , though he is not sure if he was granted labial access as well, so instead he sucks on Ginger's fingers, which Ginger in turn rubs into John, and then Ginger gets dirty and offers his fingers to Tim again, and he is not one to refuse, so he figures he got there by proxy. Ginger stretches John with his fingers covered in Tim's saliva for a bit, and then they switch to lube for greater efficiency, even though both Tim and John agree Ginger being filthy was hot.

John asks Ginger to fuck him on his hands and knees again, asks him to fuck him so that Tim sees and asks him to fuck him hard, Ginger getting lost in the fucking woods after the very first utterance and then just wandering off even further, Tim thinking that when he dies and they cut him open that thing inside his chest is going to poison the entire city and make it uninhabitable for hundreds of years, John whining on the fucking bed.

Ginger fucks John on his hands and knees, pulling his head up for Tim to see, and Tim circles them like a fucking shark smelling blood with his cock hanging out, amazed and excited by all the possibilities to make all of that go terribly wrong.

The one that he settles on is nasty enough that it just might have left Ginger damaged for the rest of his life, until he maybe gets Alzheimer's and forgets what he's seen, but Tim hopes he won't, because he is exactly that kind of a person.

He circles them like a shark, lets himself be annoyed at Ginger's sweettalking John and John moaning for him, lets the nuclear fission in his chest start. He undresses and stands in front of John, smirking, his cock in mere centimeters from his face, and he wonders if he was granted this type of access, for which he cannot conjure a relevant adjective, but then Ginger says 'fuck, Tim' and John moans and Tim decides he'll have his regrets later and moves even closer, his cock touching John's face.

John opens his mouth, and Tim is fucking delighted he wasn't wrong this time either.

He lets John lick his cock for a while, not helping him along and not trying to get it into his mouth, just looking at him, his eyes lingering on his lips, looking at Ginger, his eyes lingering on his agape mouth.

He puts his hand into John's hair, brushing Ginger's fingers holding his head up.

“John,“ he says. “Do you like my cock?“

John moans.

“No, tell me.“

“I like your cock,“ John says.

“Do you want it in your mouth?“ he asks.

“I want it in my mouth,“ John says.

“Shit,“ Ginger says, and Tim smiles.

“I am going to give it to you, alright? But only if you suck my fingers first.“

“Okay,“ John says.

“You'll have to do it exactly like I ask you to,“ Tim says. “And if you make a mistake...“

John moans.

“Well, we'll see what I'll do then.“

So he presents his hand to John and John looks at him and Tim says 'thumb'.

Tim says 'thumb' and Tim says 'pinky' and 'middle finger' and 'thumb' again and 'ring finger' and 'middle finger' again and then John goes for the wrong one.

Tim slaps him across the face.

“Fuck!“ Ginger says, jumping a bit, so John slides off the bed a little, his face meeting Tim's cock again. “Tim, what the actual fuck?“

“Shut up,“ Tim says. “Everything's fine. Right, John?“

John moans.

“Okay, let's give you some insentive not to screw up,“ Tim says. “You're gonna do exactly like I say, but this time my cock is also participating.“

John moans again.

Tim says 'middle finger' and 'thumb' and 'cock' and 'middle finger' and 'pinky' and ' thumb' again and then John fails.

Tim grins and slaps him again. John gasps.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says. “What are you... Fuck, seriously, this is—“

“Ginj,“ John says. “It's okay. It's hot. I like it. Just fuck me, okay?“

“See?“ Tim asks, looking at Ginger. “He likes it. So shut your mouth and fuck him.“

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says, but does what they said anyway.

“Okay, John,“ Tim continues. “Let's try one more time.“

And they try one more time, and John fails again and Tim slaps him again, Tim asks him how did he even manage to learn fucking guitar with laughable skills like that and slaps him again, and he is not sure what actually makes John start fucking crying, the slap or the question, but it feels like it was the latter, even though it is ridiculous, because, first of all, John learned fucking guitar without being pounded from behind, and, second, he fucking did learn fucking guitar and does things Tim doesn't even dream of doing. Anyway, John bursts into tears, moaning at the same time, and Ginger says 'you sick fuck' and then covers his mouth with his hand, looking genuinely shocked, Tim starts saying 'are you alright, John', because not even he is that kind of a person, but then John catches his cock with his mouth and moans around him, and Tim puts his hand on his head, next to and over Ginger's, and John is coming with Tim's cock in his mouth, Tim not being able to see his face yet again, so he looks at Ginger instead, who is also coming, hand pressed over his mouth hard, knuckles white.

Tim takes a step back and John falls not entirely ungracefully onto his side. Ginger is clearly about to say something and something that is not fucking sweet at all.

 _Hold your fucking horses,_ Tim thinks.

“Can you postpone that just a little bit?“ Tim says, lifting his forefinger, and drags Ginger to sit on the edge of the bed. John sits up, leaning on Ginger's shoulder, and Tim pulls the condom off Ginger's cock, drops on his knees and falls face forward between Ginger's legs, landing in his hot mess with an open mouth.

He stays pressed there, dropping his hand between his own legs, slaps his cock hard once, then again, and again, then starts jerking off, opening his mouth even wider and feeling somebody putting a hand on his head.

Tim comes hot and shaking, when he understands the hand was Ginger's put there by John's.

 

“Okay,“ he says a minute or two later, sitting up and looking at Ginger. “Now you can tell me what a horrible fucking person I am.“

John starts giggling, because he probably looks fucking ridiculous with Ginger's come all over his face bracing himself to be scolded, and Ginger actually doesn't look as pissed off and scared as he did before Tim's unconventional landing, so Tim squints at both of them and figures they were probably fucking making out while he was beating off with his face pressed into Ginger's spent cock in a fucking parody of praying for forgiveness.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“You sick fuck,“ Ginger says. “Can you like notify me the next time you're going to do something... that has a potential to make me shit my pants?“

“John's the one who is good at writing notes,“ Tim says.

John giggles.

“But okay. Of course. Sorry,“ he adds.

“You know,“ Ginger starts, getting up and taking the cigarettes off the table. “When you asked me if you were freaking me out, remember?“ Tim nods. “I thought you didn't want me to be freaking out. And now I fucking think you fucking enjoy that.“

Tim shrugs and offers him his best shark smile and they smoke and drink a lot of water and John gorges on chocolate chip cookies, leaving crumbs on the sheets, and then they collapse and sleep together in a giant pile of limbs.

 

***

The tour ends and they go back home.

Tim meets with Ginger a few days later, when they're both still in ruins and feel like they are at least as old as the pyramids. They walk around a mall for some unfathomable reason. They go to Ginger's afterwards and do mostly nothing, Ginger's not even talking, just lying on the couch with his head in Tim's lap. Tim brushes his hair with his fingers and doesn't remember walking from the couch to the bed.

In the morning Ginger has a raging erection and Tim has an early meeting with a nice person who needs some arranging from him. Tim knows it is not going to be his best performance, but blows Ginger anyway, and then he is not even late.

 

John calls him much later, when he is back on track, and invites him and Ginger to come to his gig.

“No,“ Tim says. “I mean, you play like a fucking god and everything, but.“

But he has a life. And at that point in time he really does. Brian announces they should start writing for the new album and suddenly Tim has to shit on his lyrics a lot. People jump at him from every corner and call at any time of the day, wanting stuff, at home and from across the ocean too. He switches gyms and runs in the park and buys a cook book and reads a thick volume of biblical commentary covered in really suspicious stains he lifts off Brian and so on, not to mention all the things he has to put into his mouth in the clubs and passing out wasted on various surfaces, the latter being the most demanding activity.

“Okay,“ John says, and Tim hears a smile in his voice. “Wanna come to my place, though?“

“That I can do,“ he answers, John gives him the address and they agree on a time and date a bit later in the week.

 

He doesn't know if he needs to bring something and doesn't know what that would be, if he does need to bring something, and he doesn't want to bring anything, because having one mother hen in their relationship is probably enough.

He also doesn't know if it is okay to bring smokes or maybe John's going to mind, since this time it is his fucking house, so he leaves without any, but then stops on the way and buys not one, but two packages, because whatever.

John opens the door, barefoot and dressed like a fucking cabaret dancing pimp, Tim says 'hi' and gets in and they walk into the room.

“Am I early?“ he asks, seeing no sign of Ginger.

“Why?“ John frowns.

“Ginj's not here,“ Tim says.

“Ginj's not coming,“ John says. “He is out of town.“

_Oh._

Tim stops abruptly and sways on his feet a bit.

Like, maybe he's earned himself a fucking reputation, okay.

But.

This is definitely something someone should have had a serious conversation about.

“Uh,“ he starts, looking at John, brow raised.

 “Oh, it's okay,“ John says quickly and offers him a smile. “I asked him if that was alright.“

 _Did you now,_ Tim thinks.

“Oh,“ he says. “Okay.“

 

John shows him around the house after that and then plays guitar for him. _Now go and start explaining to me every little thing you did here like I want to know_ , he thinks, when John puts it away, but John doesn't, asking him about something else entirely, like his biography related question, and they chat and John says it is okay if he smokes in the room, if he opens a window.

John says he's a bit hungry and eats something sweet Tim decides not to look at, walking around the room and touching stuff instead. He finds John's make up stash and they sit in front of the mirror together, after John's finished eating, and try everything on, being silly, but not as silly as Ginger would have been, if Tim was doing that with him. If Tim was doing that with Ginger, he thinks, Ginger would be making all sorts of faces, and then somebody would most likely get his mouth fucked.

They wash their faces and John tells Tim about boobs he tripped over and fell on during his career, but obviously not about all of them, because otherwise he'd be sitting there listening to him till the end of the week.

And luckily he doesn't.

Luckily he fucks John on his hands and knees instead.

 

At first, when Tim starts pulling his glistening shirt off him, John gets jittery and giggles like an idiot, blushing, so Tim has to shake him a bit and order him around a bit, giggling turning into moaning in a matter of seconds as if by fucking magic, though a somewhat cheap street variety, but Tim is not one to complain, since he gets to look at John's beautiful naked spine and smack his beautiful naked butt and fuck his fingers into his hole, gripping his red cheeks hard with his hand, John swearing and telling him to give it to him and wreck him and even fucking _destroy_ him and saying he wants nothing but feel his enormous cock ripping his ass and going totally _berserk_ on him, actually saying the fucking words with his genuine fucking mouth, and they both collapse laughing like fifteen times, smirking at each other knowingly, partners in fucking crime.

Tim fully intends to look John in the eye when they fuck and finally see his coming face, but John insists on doggy style, so Tim figures another time and shoves his head into a pillow, pressing on his nape and bending him, his beautiful naked spine in an impossible curve. He fucks John on his hands and knees and tells him tales of horrible things he is going to do to his cock, John moaning and pushing back to meet him, Tim never fulfilling his promise, because, well, John is not as much out of his fucking mind as Tim is to actually go through with this, and also because even talking is more than enough, John coming into his own hand, clenching around him. Tim thinks that if he was in his place he would love nothing more than let whomever was fucking him just keep fucking him, Ginger and the possibility of that popping into his mind, and Tim almost goes out with a bang right then, but not quite. John doesn't seem to agree with him there, so Tim lets him off his cock and watches him take the condom off him and suck him into his mouth. Tim slaps himself across the face twice, while John's at it, and then takes his cock in his own hand and squeezes it hard, pulling out of John's mouth almost all the way, smearing his lips, John sucking on the tip, looking up at him, Tim coming in a couple of seconds.

They hang out on the bed after that, Tim abstaining from smoking, John mouthing at every single fucking part of his body for what seems like eternity, until Tim says he will bite his head off and make Ginger fuck the resulting hole, John laughing and getting up to shove more of the disgusting sweet stuff into his mouth, Tim lying there covered in John's saliva and wondering how they do it with Ginger.

Then he asks John, because why the hell not, and apparently they do it fucking fluffy.

Tim eyes John suspiciously for a second, not entirely sure what exactly he suspects him of, John sticks his tongue out at him and says that Ginger's cute and Ginger's nice and Ginger's amazing, and Tim's not inclined to disagree. John adds that Ginger's probably fucking in love with him and Tim snorts.

"If he is in love with somebody, then it is with you," he tells John and proceeds to insult everything the kissing moaning stupid bastards do together.

John laughs and says that they are probably in love with each other too, but that is different, because Ginger is like in _love_ love with Tim, and Tim asks if he wants to get punched, leaves the bed and smokes by the window.

“So,“he says. “What about me?“

“Ha?“ John asks.

“What does this psychology genius have to say about my fucking feels?“

John sits up on the bed and considers him like a particularly rare specimen.

“I don't fucking know,“ he says, grinning. “Maybe you just like hurting people.“

“Thank you,“ Tim scoffs, putting the cigarette out.

John tells him he didn't mean that in a bad way and Tim rolls his eyes and they hang out on the bed some more. Then John gets jittery again and for a while Tim cannot figure out why.

“I wanna play,“ John says, when pressed.

He wants to fucking _play,_ Tim thinks and tells him to go jerk off his fucking guitar in another room, even though it is John's house. John doesn't seem to mind, so Tim sleeps in the bedroom, his head buried under the pillow, and when he gets up in the morning John is sitting on the couch in another room, playing, and Tim is not sure if it is still or already but doesn't ask.

 

***

Tim goes to see a movie with John a few days later, because Brian announces he has some personal things he's got to sort out, and Tim doesn't have to shit on his lyrics anymore and doesn't have to do anything better.

Then John gets out of town and Ginger gets back in, calling him and telling him about his trip and asking him how is it going and even talking about fucking news on the radio until Tim demands to know what the fuck is going on here, and Ginger awkwardly confesses that he missed him. _How did we get back to that miserable stage,_ Tim thinks, and tells Ginger to haul his ass to his place, if he wants to see him so much.

Ginger does just that the next day and they end up watching the same movie Tim watched with John on DVD, drinking something stupid Ginger saw at the store and figured he wanted to try and eating jelly worms. Tim gets Ginger's feet out of his shoes and keeps them in his lap, absent mindedly running his hands over his soles, while they both look at the screen without actually watching, Ginger telling him something and stopping now and then to swing the jelly worm over his dumb face and pull at it, sticking his tongue out and everything, which makes Tim think of replacing it with a real fucking dessert.

He does nothing of the sort, though, too lazy sitting there, puffing out the smoke, until Ginger presents him with a puzzle, the story he's been telling losing coherence. Well, Tim does nothing after that too, at least for a while, not really paying attention neither to the story nor to its coherence, but then he really starts wondering if Ginger's drinking something different than he is, because there is no way he could get that wasted on this bullshit.

Tim turns his head to inspect him closely, and Ginger turns out not to be drunk at all, Ginger turns out to have a massive boner, going red when Tim experimentally runs his fingers over his feet, aiming for deliberate this time.

“Aren't you full of surprises,“ Tim says, grinning and feeling the terrifying thing in his chest starting the countdown right on schedule.

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says, trying to get his feet away from Tim, and Tim's not having that.

“Come on,“ he says, not letting him go. “Foot fucking fetishist. Come on. I know you want me to suck on your toes.“

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says again, throwing jelly worms at him. “I am not a foot motherfucking fetishist. I don't want you to suck on my goddamn toes.“

And fuck knows, maybe he really doesn't, but that is exactly what they end up doing anyway, Tim discarding his shirt and pulling Ginger's pants off with dark determination, Ginger hitching his wifebeater up in the most familiar way, lifting his legs and throwing them open, presenting Tim not only with his feet, but also with a clear view of his hole, Tim instantly overheating. Ginger puts one of his feet on Tim's shoulder for leverage and another one is pretty soon in Tim's mouth, Ginger gasping and for once not saying anything, fucking moaning and beating off in front of Tim, staring at him, lost in the fucking woods, Tim sucking on his toes and licking his soles, opening his mouth wide and twisting his own cock.

Ginger comes with his name on his lips, eyes black and unseeing, and Tim grabs his sweaty come covered hands and makes him hold himself open, his arms hooked under his knees, Tim squeezing his own cock tight, admiring the fucking scenery and coming hot and shaking, thinking he is so telling John all about it.

 

In the morning Ginger has a raging erection and Tim doesn't have anywhere to be, so he thinks now is his chance to impress, not that before he failed at being impressive, but Ginger gets his hands on him first and gets his mouth on him first, his thumb brushing against Tim's hole several times.

“Fuck me,“ Tim says and grips his cheeks, pulling them apart.

Ginger freezes, looking a bit shocked, Tim thinks _what have I done wrong this time_ , and then Ginger puts his face down and licks at his hole and continues licking, holding Tim's thighs tight, digging his fingers in, until Tim comes, slapping his own face too many times in a string of fucking machine gun bursts.

Tim sits up after catching his breath momentarily and lifts Ginger's face with his hand, making him look at him, telling him to jerk off, and Ginger jerks off, his head pressed to Tim's thigh, looking at Tim's face and asking if he slapped himself, Tim nodding and asking if he wants him to do that again, Ginger trying to shake his head that is pressed to Tim's thigh. Tim does it anyway. Ginger shudders, gasping out an 'oh' and a 'fuck' and 'Tim', and Tim does it again, and it fucking hurts, and then he pulls his own mouth wide open with his fingers, showing his teeth, and Ginger comes, his head still pressed to Tim's thigh.

 

***

Tim doesn't tell anything to John.

Tim goes clubbing with Pogo and gets his hands on cocaine, which they snort together after Tim vomits next to a dumpster, Pogo laughing like a fucking hyena the whole time and not making it any easier.

Brian still cites personal reasons for not providing him with lyrics to shit on, so Tim gets bored and goes to the studio and composes a shit ton of bass lines, dragging Pogo along to play the keyboard for him, and they produce a couple of songs that sound fucking German and straight out of nineties, Pogo reading the receipts for groceries Tim's found around the house over the melody, with an accent Tim cannot quite place. He records the result on a dictation machine and makes Pogo swear he won't say a fucking word about all of that to any living being.

He plays the recording to several of his friends and acquaintances across the ocean over the phone and gets an invitation to go to Berlin next month to help with an album despite having done that.

Tim gets bored again and goes to the studio and composes another shit ton of bass lines, and John doesn't need to be dragged along to play the guitar for him, but ends up playing guitar to him instead, as if Tim is his fucking audience.

He accepts the invitation to help with an album in Berlin and he accepts the invitation to go to a gig of John's with Ginger.

 

They go to Tim's place after the gig, Ginger and John starting kissing in the taxi, and once they are through the door John says he wants to see him fucked by Ginger and Tim says he wants to finally see his face when he comes and Ginger says 'fuck, we've just gotten here'.

Tim shrugs and they go into the room, he smokes and drinks beer, leaning on various items of furniture around the room, Ginger and John sitting on the bed, Ginger telling him how awesome his gig was and how awesome he is and all that, John smiling and swinging his feet in the air.

They start kissing again a bit later, John waving Tim to come over, so Tim tells him he's going to be there in a second, takes his clothes off, takes out the condoms and the giant bottle of lube he bought on the very first day of their European tour, lights up a cigarette and sits in the chair backwards in front of the bed, watching Ginger getting John naked and John getting Ginger hard. Then he pours some lube onto his fingers and puts his hand behind his back. He is already fucking himself on his fingers when they notice him again, and he grins at them like a shark when they do.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says.

“Can I look?“ John asks, his hand twitching on Ginger's cock.

“Need you ask,“ Tim says and gets up and turns his chair around and sits again, his back to them now, and fucks himself on his fingers, letting John look at his hole and his naked spine or whatever John is fucking looking at, wondering just how much Ginger wants to run out of the room and just how deep he is lost in the woods, gripping the back of the chair with his free hand hard and trying to contain the nuclear fission in his chest, though thinking of Ginger doesn't really help with that.

Ginger is atypically silent, so when Tim feels he cannot just put it on anymore he turns over his shoulder and sees Ginger staring at him, eyes black, fists clenching on both sides of his hips, John's hand covering his mouth and John's other hand lazily jerking him off. Tim grins and Ginger whines under John's hand and John moans and smiles at him knowingly, his partner in crime, Tim getting up and thinking John's definitely scored some points here and that is exactly the kind of torture he approves of and that is exactly the kind of magic he needs more of in his life and also that he quite possibly has to build a pagan fucking temple now and make Pogo its high priest and transsexual fucking cake the sacred food.

John lets go of Ginger, putting his hand on his own cock instead and moaning, deep and loud, and Ginger looks at Tim and grabs him and pulls him close, shaking, their limbs getting in the way.

“Fuck, Tim,“ he says, grabbing him by the arms and then hugging him, his whole body shuddering, his hands on Tim's nape and Tim's back.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,“ he says and Tim thinks _just don't have a damn seizure now please_ and doesn't pull away, when Ginger finds his lips with his own, letting him moan into his mouth and listening to John whining on the bed next to them and maybe even producing some sounds of his own.

They land on the bed a minute later, when Ginger finds it in himself to actually move, on their sides, Ginger bigspooning him. Tim pulls up his leg with one hand and says 'come on' and 'fuck me', while Ginger rolls on a condom, shaking behind him, and maybe they should have added more lube, but it is nowhere to be found, not that any one of them is in a fit state to be in a fucking search party, so they make do with what they have, Tim saying 'fuck me' again and Ginger complying.

John whines and falls on the bed next to them not entirely ungracefully, facing Tim and licking his lips.

“Oh, really?“ Tim says, pushing back at Ginger's cock.

“Don't you fucking dare touch yourself,“ Tim says, pushing back again.

“Give me your fucking fingers,“ Tim says, pushing back once more and somehow they figure out who he's been addressing with what, so very soon he has Ginger's four fingers shoved in his mouth and Ginger's cock shoved up his ass and moving, and he has John's miserable whining face and John's miserable accommodating hands locked behind his back and John's miserable neglected cock to admire, and maybe there is some kind of ancient witchcraft involved indeed.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says behind him and starts telling him stupid things into his ear.

Tim thinks briefly of headbutting him, but John moans every fucking time Ginger finishes a string of praise, his mouth falling open, his miserable whining face looking amazed, and the twisted logic of this sequence makes the nuke in his chest descend rapidly on its intended target, and he knows he has just mere seconds left and thinks this cannot possibly get any better.

_Mistakes._

_He makes them too._

“Fuck, Tim, I fucking can't... I can't anymore...“ Ginger says behind him.

John moans and opens his miserable whining mouth.

“Tim, can I fucking touch you?“ he says and Tim thinks _need you ask_ and doesn't say anything, Ginger's four fingers shoved into his mouth.

But evidently John takes his silence as a yes and unlocks his hands and slides a bit down, and Tim doesn't have time to think anything before John moves his hand past Tim's cock and brushes against his stretched hole instead.

Tim comes, Ginger's hand gripping and crushing his jaw, Ginger saying 'fuck, fuck, fuck' and coming too, John's hand brushing against Ginger's cock and rubbing at his hole.

There is not a single soul left standing after the blast and Tim sits up in the epicenter of the nuclear disaster and hauls John up by his hair too.

“Give it to me,“ he demands, and John starts jerking off in front of him and Ginger's having a fucking seizure behind him.

John comes seconds later, fracturing and falling apart before him, and isn't it a sight to behold.

Ginger calls them sick fucks and neither Tim nor him have any strength to get the smokes, so John does it for them, putting the cigarettes in their mouths, all of them losing consciousness very soon after that.

 

****

Berlin is cold, but welcoming.

Tim's first week there is a mishmash of stuffing his face with currywurst, hugs, pubs, passing out on couches with people he's known for years and people he's just met, kisses, clubs, sitting on the grass with a cold beer in his cold hand, conversations that are hard to follow and standing near _spätis_ at five in the morning, staring at graffiti.

Then he realizes he is probably going to stay there a while, so he moves his unopened bags from the hotel he barely stayed in into an apartment near Kottbusser Tor and starts working, not exactly abandoning the hugs and kisses and sitting on the grass with a cold beer in his cold hand, which makes it somewhat hard to keep track of time, so he doesn't even notice he's been there more than a month already before Ginger tells him that on the phone.

They talk for fourty minutes, Tim standing near the window and eating pickles out of a jar with his bare hands, Ginger telling him about everything he missed with John playing in the background, questioning him on names and professions of his new friends, gas prices, every technical detail of the music he produces, news on the radio, weather and the quality of his fucking sleep.

He tells him John had a gig recently, and that he took pictures of it and asks if he wants to see, so Tim leaves the empty jar on the window sill and sits in the chair to check his e-mail. He scrolls through several shots of John on stage, feathers and black paint covering his face, different guitar in his hands on each of them, compliments the style and tells Ginger to pass it along, but then John shouts 'thank you', because the phone has been on speaker all along, and Tim scrolls down a bit more, getting several more shots of the afterparty, John's pretty face with a coy smile, Ginger's stupid drunk face, some hugs and kisses and more of the feathers, so he asks where are the nudes, and Ginger tells him to fuck off, John giggling and throwing something at Ginger by the sound of it.

They talk for twenty more minutes, until Tim says his mouth wasn't created for that, and when he checks his email the next time there is a letter entitled 'from John with love' and it is a fucking porn story, with John and Ginger as main characters, and it is bad and hilarious because of it, so Tim reads it six times in a row, eating pretzels and laughing out loud, and then jerks off to it anyway, thinking that such efforts must be gratified.

Then it is almost two months gone, so he calls Brian to make sure he is not forgotten, and Brian tells him he is doing drugs and interviews and having a nervous breakdown, assuring him they'll write the album when Tim comes back. By that time Tim works with different people than he did when he came there, the procedure is still the same: currywurst, couches and cold beer in his hand that is not really cold anymore, Berlin gradually warming up.

Ginger calls him again several weeks later and they talk for an hour before Ginger, who's been somewhat uneasy during their entire conversation, finally asks him if he is coming back, in these exact words, Tim reacting with 'fuck, seriously?' and 'of course' and 'what, do you miss me that much?', and Ginger says 'yes', Tim answering him with 'well then why don't you come over here?' without thinking. There is a pause after that. Ginger says 'yeah?' and Tim says 'yeah' and then 'you know, if you are not busy'. Ginger says 'not really' and Tim says 'okay then' and Ginger says 'uh' and 'thanks' and Tim asks 'what for?' and Ginger tells him to fuck off. 'Bring John', Tim adds, and Ginger says John's got to do a little solo tour in less than two weeks, but he'll ask.

Three days later Tim meets them at the airport, wondering when he got so soft. John's wearing hideous sunglasses and sneakers Tim is one hundred percent sure are actually Ginger's, Ginger is dead on his feet with his hair in a ponytail that screams I HAVE NO FUCKS LEFT TO GIVE in capital letters.

The next day they go to the zoo, John pointing at everything, still wearing his hideous sunglasses, Ginger buying them ice-cream and never shutting up. When they come back, Tim shows Ginger John's little love letter. Ginger goes fucking red and then all three of them fall onto the bed and jerk each other off, limbs getting in the way, Ginger turning into a giant squid once again, John crying out a couple of times, when Tim squeezes his cock too hard with his dry hand, because he doesn't happen to have lube in the house and John's lube is still buried deep at the bottom of his bag.

The next morning Tim sucks Ginger off, while John is watching, biting his nails and whining, and then sucks John off too, while Ginger sits next to him and touches his hole with dry fingers, whispering stupid things into his ear. Tim says they've got to unpack the fucking lube and they go have breakfast in Kreuzberg. Tim goes to work, leaving them wander around the city, buying fucking refrigerator magnets, eating falafel and getting lost in the U-Bahn not once, but three times, and Tim knows because they call him. In the evening they go clubbing, Ginger gets stupidly drunk, Tim takes vomit inducing pills, John giggles and dances a lot, all three of them ending up standing near a _späti_ at five in the morning, not even buying anything, just trying to read the names of the brands out loud and fucking dying of laughter there.

When they wake up Tim goes to the studio to work, suffering horribly, and they stay at home, because it is dull and raining outside. When he comes back his flat is a scene of domestic fucking bliss, both John and Ginger sitting on the couch half naked, John playing and Ginger reading one of Tim's books. Tim asks them if they unpacked the lube and no, they didn't, though yes, they fucked. 'I sucked his cock, Ginj ate me out', John says, without looking up from his guitar. Ginger is red again, and Tim goes to the kitchen and cooks dinner for them, smoking and whistling to John's tunes, Ginger coming in to distract him with fucking kisses and admiration, John coming in too to see what's going on there. The lube stays at the bottom of John's bag, so before they go to sleep John sucks his cock, while Ginger eats him out, Tim coming hard and fucking helpless.

The next day Tim takes them to the studio to meet his friends after giving them a brief tour of the city and explaining how not to get lost in the U-Bahn. Ginger gets into talking about samples and beats and bass lines with Tim and a couple of other people, while John surrounds himself with everybody else, impressing them with playing every guitar there is in the studio. In the evening it turns out that somebody just got really fucking impressed, so John excuses himself for the night with a coy smile. Tim and Ginger go stare at the Wall, eating peanuts, Ginger kissing Tim way too many times. Then they go home and Tim ransacks John's bag and finally gets out the lube. Ginger fucks him with his fingers, running his hands and lips over his thighs, telling him everything he's already heard and fucking more, sucking his cock, letting Tim look at him, letting Tim pull at his hair, letting Tim touch his teeth, letting Tim slap his face, letting Tim do _anything_. Tim comes in his mouth, feeling the terrible, wretched thing in his chest go off, releasing heat and fire and radiation, laying waste and bringing death and destruction.

Tim pushes Ginger on the bed, not letting either of them catch a fucking breath, pours lube on his cock and lowers himself on it, riding him, hissing, his hands gripping his shoulders. Ginger asks him if it hurts, having his cock inside after orgasm, Tim says it does and says he'd like it to hurt even more, Ginger's mouth falling agape, eyes terrified, Tim grabbing both his hands with his and pining them above his head and riding him, fucking himself on his cock till he comes hot and shaking and fucking undone.

Tim cannot stop smiling after that and Ginger tells him he fucking hates him.

The next morning they get a wake up call from John, who is lost in the U-Bahn again, so Tim goes out to find him after Ginger doesn't look at him and tells him he fucking hates him again and then catches him near the door and kisses him goodbye, saying they can have a walk around with John, if they want, and he'll just stay here and read. Finding John takes forever, because he is at Kaulsdorf Nord, scandalizing ladies at local Lidi with his black lipstick, and when Tim finally gets him and asks what the fuck, it is Kottbusser Tor, he says they both start with a K. They go walk around Mitte after that, John poiting at things and buying ice-cream at fucking McDonalds and telling him about cunnilingus he's been engaging in both last night and that morning. Tim smokes through a whole package and kicks cans with his boots a lot. Then they walk past a sex-shop and, well, they both agree they just have to go in. John points at stuff, once they are inside, flirts with the shop assistants, who are not as scandalized as the ones in Lidi by his fucking lipstick, and they buy a dildo from outer space, Tim grinning like a fucking shark.

They go to a supermarket, where Tim spends way too much time thinking about what to buy to make sure Ginger's not going to run out of the room on him, if he hasn't done that already, John noticing and demanding to know what horrible thing he did to him this time, Tim saying 'all of them' and shrugging.

When they get back Ginger is not actually pissed off with him, which possibly makes Tim an even worse person than he previously thought. He sits with him in the kitchen, while Tim cooks, and they smoke and talk about the book of Tim's Ginger's been reading and about some albums Tim has in the apartment that Ginger listened to, while they were out, John playing in the other room.

Tim figures he's been forgiven, so when Ginger goes to take a leak after they've eaten and chilled out on the couch for an hour or so, he takes out the dildo from outer space they've bought with John, and John puts the chair next to the bed and puts the dildo on the seat, they look at each other knowingly and grin, both of them getting hard just thinking about what they fully intend to do, and start licking it, their tongues meeting, and that is how Ginger finds them, when he gets back into the room.

“You sick motherfuckers,“ Tim hears from another end of the room, and John giggles. Tim lifts his head and looks at the fucked up modern rendition of Mona Lisa staring at him, fists clenching.

“Come here,“ he says. “Let's ruin John.“

There is a brief pause, Ginger looking at Tim and Tim looking at Ginger, but it doesn't last, because John takes the damn thing in his mouth and sucks on it with an obscene pop, that works like a trigger mechanism, propelling Ginger to come to the fucking bed.

 _Magic and space cocks,_ Tim thinks.

They make John lie on the bed on his back, legs spread wide, his arms hooked under his knees, head in Ginger's lap, and Tim gets the lube.

“Oh, you've finally found it,“ John says, smiling, kissing Ginger's palm.

“Yeah,“ Tim says, sitting down in front of him on his heels, lighting up a cigarette and putting it in his mouth.

He pours some lube on his fingers and starts stretching John, lifting his head once in a while to glance at Ginger and see him either looking back at him or looking down at John, lying there with his head in his lap, Ginger's fingers moving gently in his hair, John moaning with an open mouth, looking up at him.

“So, John,“ he says after a few minutes. “Why don't you tell Ginger how you want to be fucked?“

“Fuck,“ Ginger says.

“Okay,“ John says and tells Ginger he wants to be fucked on his hands and knees and on his back with Ginger holding his legs open, Tim's cock in his mouth, and he wants to ride Tim while Ginger looks and so much more, Ginger gasping and swearing and saying John's name a lot, while Tim smokes and hurts his own cock and stretches John with his fingers.

Then he puts out the cigarette and lets go of himself and presses the dildo against John's hole.

“Oh,“ John says, and Tim starts pushing it in. “Fuck. Ginger. Fuck. Tim. Tim.“

“What do you fucking want?“ Tim asks, looking at the cock from outer space gradually getting in.

“I want Ginger in my mouth,“ John says.

“Okay,“ Tim says, smirking. “You can have him. No objections here.“

“Shit,“ Ginger says, and then John shifts a bit, turning his head, letting it slide onto the bed, until Ginger's cock touches his face.

John opens his mouth and starts licking him. Tim starts fucking John with the dildo, his other hand twisting his own cock. Ginger gets lost in the fucking woods.

“Ginj,“ Tim says. “Tell me how much you love John's mouth.“

John moans.

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says.

“Come on,“ Tim says, gripping himself tight. “I wanna fucking know. Tell me how much you like it when he sucks you.“

“Fuck off, Tim,“ Ginger says.

“Okay,“ Tim laughs, the countdown in his chest reaching zero. “Then I will tell you something.“

And he delivers a fucking speech, fucking John with the dildo from outer space, squeezing himself hard and looking at Ginger going into shock, telling him how well John's hole is taking the cock, how tight it is, how much John wants to be fucked and how much John wants to be _used_ , John moaning obscenely, deep and low.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says.

“Fuck you. Fuck both of you,“ Ginger says, coming into John's mouth, his hand flying up and covering his, muffling his growl. John moans with Ginger's cock in his mouth and comes too, clenching around the dildo, Tim fucking him through it, the nuclear fireball blossomming in his chest and reaching his throat, his mouth turning into Wadi fucking Rum.

He takes out the dildo and gets up, legs shaking slightly, while they are still panting, pulls up the chair, puts the dildo on it and coats it in lube.

He lowers himself on it, thanking all the pagan gods he is going to build a pagan temple for that it is not one of the huge black ones John was pointing at, smiling with his lipstick covered lips, flirting with shop assistants, but even so it is a fucking stretch and he moans, loud and deep, unable to stop himself.

“Fuck,“ Ginger says, looking at him momentarily, his face haunted in the most beautiful way. “Tim.“

“Yeah,“ Tim says and moans again, pushing himself down. “Hurts.“

“Shit,“ John says, sitting up, eyes going wide.

“Yeah,“ Tim says and moans again, shuddering, when the fucking thing is finally inside of him. “Fucking hurts.“

“Fucking hell,“ Ginger says, covering his mouth again.

“Yeah,“ Tim says, smiling and starting to slowly fuck himself on the dildo, hoping his legs won't give up on him.

A wave of heat goes through his body and he feels like he is ready to call for help again, sinking to the bottom of the fucking ocean.

“Tim,“ John says.

“Yeah,“ Tim says, wrapping his hand around his cock, neither feeling familiar. “Gonna fucking come.“

“Fuck, Tim,“ Ginger says and gets up and grabs Tim's chin firm and bends down and kisses him.

Tim comes a second later, hot and shaking, moaning into his mouth.

“I am a dead fucking shark,“ he says, when he is able to speak again, leaning on Ginger, boneless and heavy, Ginger holding him by the shoulders. “Somebody please give me a fucking cigarette.“

The next day Tim feels like he's been run over by a fucking truck and he gets up only thanks to magic that he thinks definitely exists, because Ginger brings him water and makes him coffee, and John puts on his boots for him and does his belt. He gets some work done in the studio, while John and Ginger go to museums, getting lost in the U-Bahn again and calling him, crying for help, Tim thinking that maybe he was wrong about the fucking magic, but then again he is allowed to make mistakes, isn't he, and in the evening they go clubbing, Ginger getting stupidly drunk, John dancing a lot and flirting with the bartender, Tim getting his hands on MDMA and not even vomiting for once, all three of them ending up standing near a _späti_ at five in the morning, hugging, John pointing at stuff, Ginger dead on his feet and Tim eating pickles out of a jar with his bare hands.

It is already light outside, when they get back to his apartment, birds fucking chirping, flying by the window.

“Fuck,“ John says, sitting on the couch next to Tim, playing something silly on his guitar. "We've gotta be at the airport in four hours."

“Fuck,“ Tim says too, thinking he should have built that temple sooner.

“Do you mind...“ Ginger says, scooping himself off the floor and fumbling with the cigarette package in his hands. “Do you mind if I stay?“

“What?“ both Tim and John say simultaneosly, looking up at him.

“Do you mind if I stay here with you? With Tim,“ he says, stuttering, and Tim feels like he cannot fucking breathe for a second there, his chest burning hot.

“Sure,“ John says. “'Course. Tim?“

Tim looks at Ginger, still fumbling with the cigarettes, swaying on his feet a bit and staring at the floor.

“Okay,“ Tim says, his mouth a damn desert again.

“Okay,“ Ginger says, looking up at him, his lips tight.

“Now give me the fucking cigarettes and lets go to sleep,“ Tim says.

 

Surprisingly, they are not late, Tim getting up and kicking both John and Ginger out of the bed and into submission efficiently and without mercy, ordering them to dress and packing John's bag for him, because he is lost in the fucking woods with Ginger. They get to the airport, John wearing his hideous sunglasses and boots that Tim is one hundred percent sure are his own, Ginger almost translucently pale, with his hair in a ponytail that cannot say a single word anymore, much less scream anything, Tim just bloodthirsty, zeroed in on one goal.

John kisses Ginger on the mouth and kisses Tim on the mouth too, Tim promising him he'll slap him next time they meet.

John leaves, waving his hand at them one last time.

“Come on,“ Tim says, taking Ginger by the arm. “Let's put your dumb face into a pillow.“

 

***

Twenty four hours pass, and Tim wakes up not feeling like a zombie shark anymore, Ginger pressed to his side. He makes them fried eggs and they sit in the kitchen, smoking, Ginger in his wifebeater and socks, Tim in John's jeans that got left behind.

“So, what do you wanna do?“ Tim asks.

“Ah?“ Ginger goes, looking up at him.

“I mean, I can talk with the guys about my schedule, so that we can go see places. Or I don't know, I can ask around and see maybe someone needs a drummer for a couple of weeks, so that you don't get bored. Like, depends on how long you'll be staying.“

“Uhm,“Ginger says, starting fumbling with his fork.

 _Please don't ask me how long you can stay,_ Tim thinks. _Please._

“How long can I—“ Ginger starts, turning his face away from Tim.

“Ginj,“ Tim says. “Fucking relax already.“

“Okay,“ Ginger says.

“I might've claimed I was a fucking sea predator, but I won't actually bite your head off, you know. You can stay for as long as you want.“

“Okay,“ Ginger says again.

He tells him he'd love to go see places together and he wouldn't mind drumming for somebody either, and asks if he needs to get an apartment of his own; Tim tells him he will change his mind about the biting if he won't shut up that very second, thank you very much.

Tim talks with the guys and they rearrange his schedule, so they go see places. Tim asks around and nobody seems to need a drummer, but then there is a swing quartet, whose piano player recently had a baby, and Ginger says 'sure, why not' and Tim says 'seriously?' and Ginger says 'I can fucking play' and Tim says 'I know, but swing?' and Ginger tells him to fuck off and invites him to come see them at the gig, which Tim does.

 

It is on one of the Tuesdays that they take a car and drive to Potsdam and spend the day poking into churches and palaces, Ginger with his pockets full of nuts and blinking at the sun, Tim thinking that John's got his favorite boots and not finding any cans to kick.

 

It is on one of the Fridays that they have a party in Tim's apartment, putting things into their mouths and getting stupidly drunk, with people Tim's known for years and people he's just met passing out on the couch.

 

It is on many occasions that Ginger comes to the studio with Tim and they figure out the samples and beats and bass lines together.

 

It is on several of the Saturdays that Tim goes to see Ginger play the piano with a fucking swing band, shoving his fist into his mouth and sending pictures he takes to John later.

 

It is on one of the Fridays again that they just go out and ride U-Bahn all day long, Tim getting intterrupted calls from guys at the studio and susprised that Ginger is not really that bad at following the fucking signs and not being lost, Ginger kissing him so many times too many, that Tim finally tells him he'll slap him and Ginger says 'okay' and Tim wonders _okay to what_ and then asks and Ginger just shrugs, blinking at him.

 

It is on the days that they don't end up standing near _spätis_ at five in the morning that Tim cooks, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, Ginger either in another room with one of his books or one of the books he bought for himself, because it is not like Tim has a fucking library here, or in the kitchen with Tim, smoking too and getting in the way.

 

It is on one of the Mondays that Tim dyes Ginger's hair and some other items along with it as well, and it is already a Tuesday again, when Tim washes Ginger's hair, bending him over a sink, Ginger telling him he's got soap in his fucking mouth and Tim grinning, cigarette hanging from his lower lip.

 

It is a very singular Sunday morning that Tim starts by hitching Ginger's wifebeater up his spine and pressing his raging erection into his thigh, proceeding to take Ginger's toes in his mouth, Ginger squirming like a giant fucking squid in a frying pan, jerking off slowly, torturing himself, because Tim tells him to, fracturing and falling apart before him, hot and shaking and coming. Then Tim hauls him up by his not yet dyed hair and beats off in front of him, telling him to slap him, baring his teeth. Then Ginger actually does it, slaps him across the face, gasping, horrified, and Tim immediately slaps him across the face too and kisses him right after that, moaning into his mouth and coming too. Then Ginger reads on the couch and Tim talks to people on the phone. Then they get an email from John and look at the pictures from his latest gig, feathers and black paint and a long string of saliva hanging out of his lips, smeared in black lipstick. Tim answers the letter, telling John he wants his boots back, noticing them in the pictures too, and Ginger adds some more sentences that actually qualify as correspondence. Then Tim goes out and buys some squid and fries it in the pan, giggling like a crazy motherfucking shark.

 

On Thursday, of all days, he comes to pick Ginger up from his swing quartet piano hell and finds him chatting with a Danish woman called Fanny, so they go eat _döner_ together, Tim talking with her in mother tongue, while Ginger blinks at both of them, telling her this and that and then asking if she wants to go back to his place with them, adding that he can always fuck off, Ginger none the wiser about the whole exchange until Fanny kisses him while they're waiting for the train to arrive, Ginger jumping at the touch and Tim announcing that next station is _Smørrebrød_ , Fanny laughing and Ginger looking at him like a panicking Mona Lisa. Fanny rides Ginger balancing on the edge of the bed with Tim on his knees pressing his face into her and licking her clit and Ginger's cock until they both come, and then Ginger jerks him off while Fanny rubs at his hole with fingers covered in John's lube. In the morning, on Friday, Tim makes pancakes after sucking Ginger off in the kitchen in front of Fanny, while she stands there, smoking and rubbing herself. Then they part ways.

 

It is Monday again, when Tim comes home from the studio and Ginger finally surrenders and lets him massage his back that's been causing him troubles since that Friday when they had a party in Tim's flat.

“Take it off,“ Tim says, pulling at Ginger's wifebeater, and then starts squeezing and pushing and beating his back.

“Fuck, Tim!“ Ginger shouts and tries to get away from him, but to no avail. “Careful with your fucking pliers!“

Tim laughs and tells him to shut up, and he does, so that twenty odd minutes later his back is back to normal again and things progress into a different direction, Tim pushing him to lie on the bed, face buried in the pillow, grinding into his own hand, while Tim licks his soles.

Then Tim straddles his thighs and puts a hand on his nape, pulling at his already dyed hair and pressing, Ginger grinding into his own hand, swearing and saying something that sounds like Tim's name into the pillow, and then things progress into a different direction again.

Tim's chest is burning hot and melting from the inside, he lets go of Ginger's head and grabs his butt with both his hands, pulling his cheeks open and brushing a finger against Ginger's asshole, his mouth dry. Ginger suddenly freezes, going white and icy under him, and Tim thinks that this time he himself might look like a modern fucking rendition of Mona Lisa, confused and terrified.

“Ginj,“ he says. “What's wrong?“

“Nothing,“ Ginger says in somebody else's voice.

“Fuck,“ Tim says. “Look, it's alright. I am not fucking insisting on anything. Just... Talk to me?“

“Can we not have this conversation while you are still grabbing my fucking butt?“ Ginger says, turning his head to the side.

“Shit,“ Tim says. “Sorry, I didn't realize...“

He gets off Ginger and Ginger sits up, and it takes him a fucking year to turn around and yet another one to speak.

“Uh,“ Ginger says, and it is not any fucking help, Tim feeling nuclear winter descending on his chest and hating every second of it.

“Wanna smoke?“ Tim asks in somebody else's voice.

Ginger nods, so Tim gets up and brings the cigarettes and they sit on the bed and smoke, Ginger avoiding looking at him.

“Hey,“ Tim says. “If that is not your thing it is fucking okay, you know.“

 _Though that feels like a bit more than that,_ Tim thinks and hates every word.

Then things progress into yet another direction.

“Look, I... I'm not having a fragile masculinity gay fucking panic,“ Ginger finally manages.

“No?“ Tim asks, hating both the consonant and the vowel and especially the question mark.

“Jesus,“ Ginger says and rubs at his face. “Of course not. What kind of a fucking faggot would I be fucking you and John all this time thinking some... some shit about... about... Fuck, did I just say 'faggot'?“

“Yeah,“ Tim says, and Ginger looks at him for several seconds.

Then he snorts.

Ginger snorts and says "fuck" and Tim thinks those just might be some fucking magical spells, because the inner landscape of his chest is not a barren ice desert anymore.

“Okay“ Tim says. “I'm fucking delighted it's not that. Because that would have been...“

“I know,“ Ginger says. “Like the shittiest thing to fucking think.“

“Come here,“ Tim says, and they hug and then lie down, both on their backs looking at the ceiling.

“So...“

“Uhm... Look, it's fucking hot that you want that. And I... I kinda want it too. I mean, we can try and everything...“

“Okay,“ Tim says. “But?“

“But... I just don't want you to put something up my fucking ass and then see what I had for dinner, when you pull it out, alright?“

“Fucking hell,“ Tim says. “Are you fucking serious?“

“Uh...“

“Are you motherfucking serious?“ Tim says again, turning his head to look at Ginger.

“Yeah?“ Ginger says, turning his head too.

“Fuck,“ Tim says. “Do you fucking understand how dumb everything you just said is?“

“It's not d—“

“It fucking is. Fucking hell. Do you even remember what you had up mine and John's asses? Like fucking _everything_? And now you're freaking out?“ Tim asks, staring at him point blank.

“Well, it wasn't my fucking hole, okay?“ Ginger says, looking back at him.

“So what?“

“So it is disgusting.“

“Let me get this straight. My hole isn't disgusting and you're down with sticking your tongue in it. John's hole isn't disgusting and you're down with sticking your tongue in it. With sticking your fucking fingers in it and letting me lick them after that. But your hole is so fucking disgusting that you freak out when I barely fucking touch it?“ Tim asks, biting his lip not to laugh.

“Pretty much,“ Ginger says, biting his lip not to laugh too.

“I'm gonna fucking scream now,“ Tim says.

“Okay,“ Ginger says, and then Tim screams into the ceiling.

Ginger touches his hand when he stops and Tim takes his and holds it, both of them lying on their backs.

“You're fucking ridiculous,“ Tim says.

“Sorry,“ Ginger says and lies on his side, taking Tim's hand and lifting it to his mouth and kissing it, Tim lying on his side too, facing him.

“I just gotta say,“ Tim continues, touching his lips. “It is quite possible that John actually shits fucking treble clefs or something, so...“

“Fuck off,“ Ginger says, laughing. “Look, okay, I am fucking ridiculous. Can we forget about that? I mean, we can fucking try, alright?“

“So, I can eat you out, is that what you're saying?“ Tim asks, pulling at his lower lip.

“Yeah.“

“And I can stick my fingers up your ass?“ Tim asks, moving his fingers down, brushing against Ginger's throat.

“Yeah. Fuck.“

“And I can fuck your hole until you come like never before in your entire life?“ Tim asks, wrapping his hand around Ginger's cock.

“Yeah. Fuck, Tim.“

“Awesome,“ Tim says, sitting up. “I mean, we can also get like a huge motherfucking enema and get you all ready and clean as a whistle, you know.“

“Fuck. Shut up. This is fucking disgusting.“

“You don't look particularly disgusted,“ Tim says, grinning, pulling at his cock slightly. “Also, you don't get to fucking shut me up. That is my prerogative.“

“Fuck, Tim.“

“Yeah?“

“Nothing,“ Ginger says and then lifts his hand and puts it over his mouth.

Tim thinks that the weapon of mass destruction he's been feeling going off in his chest for the last fuck knows how many months just might be actually fucking real and then bends and takes Ginger into his mouth.

Ginger comes a few minutes later, hot, shaking, moaning into his own hand and biting his own fingers.

Then Tim pushes him onto his side, bigspooning him, lifts his leg a bit and puts himself between his thighs, sticking his fingers into his mouth and moving, brushing against his hole with his cock, Ginger swearing and saying his name and shuddering under his hands.

Tim comes, his face buried in Ginger's dyed hair, things for which he has no name happening in his nuclear powered chest.

 

It is a Wednesday and a Monday and a Wednesday again, when they call John and talk to him for _hours_.

 

It is a Saturday when Tim gets a call from Brian, asking him to shit on his lyrics and asking him if it is fucking true that Ginger's playing in a swing band and asking - well, demanding - they haul their asses back home, because it is time to write a new album, and Tim tells him 'give me two weeks and I'll be there'.

 

It is on one of the weekends that they take a train to Dresden and spend two days poking into churches and palaces again and sitting on the grass holding hands and a cold bear.

 

It is a Sunday or a Monday, Tim's not sure, because they've been going to clubs for the previous four or five days, putting things into their mouths and getting stupidly drunk, that he rides Ginger late at night or early in the morning, taking him in slowly, his hands behind his back, Ginger just looking at him at first, then gripping his cock hard, then actually slapping it with his genuine fucking hands as many times as Tim tells him to and it is of course too many, Tim coming, swearing and saying his name a lot, Ginger flipping him over onto his back and fucking him with his legs around his waist, pressed into him in a tight embrace and pressing him into the mattress, his dyed hair getting in Tim's miserable whining face, trying to whisper stupid things into his ear and failing magnificently, collapsing on top of him like a dead weight, hot and heavy, once he comes.

 

It is a couple hours after they've been standing near a _späti_ , Tim vomiting and Ginger distracting the seller, somewhere closer to the end of their stay, that Tim wakes up thirsty, drinks several glasses of cold water and gets back in bed, Ginger moaning something incoherent to him sleepily, Tim pressing his face into Ginger's back, and Ginger is so hot and soft and fucking pliant in his arms that he just cannot stop, touching him and kissing his back and pulling his hair, brushing against his nipples and pressing on his throat and digging his fingers into his thighs, Ginger making breathy sounds and never quite fully pronouncing his name, that he repeats over and over again. Tim wraps his hand around Ginger's cock, skin soft and tender and sensitive underneath his fingers, so he touches it lightly, drawing circles over the tip, Ginger shuddering in his arms, and then pulls at the skin, hurting him, his other hand gripping his hair, yanking his head back, Ginger gasping and crying out softly and letting him. He keeps doing it for what seems like forever, never applying enough friction for Ginger to actually come, breathing wet into his neck, mouth open, and then he moves his hand away from Ginger's cock and runs his fingers over his hole, Ginger headbutting him, both of them laughing, Ginger telling him to do that again and when he does asking not to stop. Of course, Tim doesn't stop, rubbing at him for another eternity with dry hands, Ginger shattering next to him into tiny pieces, explosions in Tim's chest engulfing them, burning and melting him inside out, and then Tim puts his fingers into Ginger's mouth to get them wet and fucks him on them, pulling them out and making Ginger lick them again, getting them in and then sucking them himself, repeating the sequence over and over again, Ginger going red and then white with feverish spots on his cheeks, moaning and exhaling wet breaths, until he comes, clenching tight around his fingers, shocked and overwhelmed and lost in the fucking woods forever. Tim pulls him close after that and they pass out, exhausted, Tim still aroused and leaking, not willing to do anything about it, Ginger a hot pile of boneless jelly in his arms, Tim dreaming of magical sea creatures swimming in the dark vastness of the ocean.

 

It is a Thursday when they come back home, Ginger looking like he's been severely beaten, marks and lines on his face from where he's been sleeping on Tim's shoulder, impressions of Tim's jacket on his skin, Tim's whole body feeling like a rock, muscles taut and strained, his eyes never quite opening. They get out of the plane and stand near the airport's entrance, Ginger making an awkward move to wave his hand at him, ten different expressions on his face and none Tim hasn't seen already, Tim saying 'come on, let's go to my place' and Ginger just falling into his fucking arms after that.

 

***

They start making the new album on Monday, John not there for the first three days, Tim playing guitar instead of him, Brian reading him his drugs induced lyrics that don't seem to need that much of a shitting on them, Pogo getting confused, because they all run on coffee and talk over each other, and thinking that Tim was playing piano in a swing band in Berlin all this time for maybe a week, Ginger dying of laughter, sitting behind his drum set, John going along with the story, eating peanuts out of Tim's pockets and shredding on his guitar like crazy for no apparent reason, because they don't exactly need that on the album.

It takes them four weeks to write the damn thing and another three to record, and Tim feels like a dead shark for most of that time. They crash at Tim's and at Ginger's and at John's on various occasions in various combinations, the most bizarre one being Tim waking up one day in John's house alone with no trace of either John or Ginger having been there for the last twenty four hours. The first time they crash at Tim's or Ginger's or John's, Tim doesn't remember which it was, he rides John till his legs hurt, slapping him hard across the face, delivering the promise, John smiling and crying and laughing and choking, Ginger having a seizure next to them. They wander around malls after recording sessions, dragging their feet, faces pale, dark circles under their eyes, John wearing his hideous sunglasses and Tim's boots that Tim gives him for good, Ginger holding Tim's hand, his fingers warm and soft and scared, breaking Tim's nuclear bomb forever occupying his chest into tiny miserable pieces.

Brian announces the dates of their next tour and on the last day before they hit the road all three of them crash at Tim's, after driving three fucking times to John's to pick up another thing he's forgotten and deciding to forgo Ginger's place entirely, since half of his fucking stuff is at Tim's anyway. Tim tells himself that they need to rest and then makes John lie on his back and rides him, holding Ginger's scared fucking fingers, stopping after a few minutes, telling John to not fucking move a single centimeter and telling Ginger to put his stupid scared fucking fingers into his hole alongside John's cock. Ginger freezes and stares at him terrified, John whining on the bed, Tim thinking Ginger is not going to refuse no matter fucking what and he is not wrong about it, because Ginger does what he told him, his other hand shaking on Tim's shoulder, and then does what Tim told him again, shocked and almost crying, sitting behind Tim, straddling John's thighs, John inside him, and getting in too, stretching Tim till both of their cocks are in and Tim says "fuck me' not knowing who he is talking to, Ginger's terrified expression reflected on John's face as if in a magical mirror. They fuck him together, Tim slapping his own face hard, his eyes wet, his whole body a foreign fucking territory, shaking and hot and made of some sort of burning nuclear gas, light and deadly, John coming, whining through gritted teeth, his pretty face fracturing into something horrible and alien and from outer space in the most beautiful way possible, Ginger lifting Tim off his spent cock, holding him by his shoulders, his hands soft and hot on his skin, fucking him until Tim comes, eyes blinded in the blast, the inside of his chest destroyed and transformed into elementary fucking particles, escaping rapidly through the atmosphere, and then fucking him until he comes as well, holding Tim's hurting face with his hand, gripping his chin, kissing him and moaning into his mouth in an endless wail.

On the day their tour starts Tim wakes up early in the morning, unable to move a single digit, dead gutted miserable fucking shark, John pressed into his back, breath hot on his neck, Ginger in front of him, face pale and covered in lines and marks from where he's been sleeping on the pillow.

Tim lies there for who knows how long, not falling asleep again, feeling John's skin touching his own and studying Ginger's face as if he is universe's biggest fucking mystery.

He doesn't know what he expects to happen next.

Nothing.

Everything.

Maybe some fucking magic.

 

John makes a sleepy sound behind him. Ginger opens his eyes and looks at him. Tim smiles, dead gutted blissful fucking shark.


End file.
